Welcome to My Nightmare
by azure-tears
Summary: M&B, F&H, AU In a world ruled by DIE, imaginary friends are not only frowned upon, they're killed. Yet, underground, a small group of friends strives against their tyranny. But when one is captured, will their society be revealed?
1. Transgression

Disclaimer: Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends does not belong to me. Thank you.

DIE _does_ belong to me and those who have read S, S before it was killed (if anyone of you have any copies of that, send them to me post haste!). For those who are uninitiated, DIE is Destroy Imagination Everywhere and, in this world, rules. However, I don't think all the DIE members from S, S will resurface in here. I doubt it.

One last thing- though I said it in the summary, I feel I must say it again. Heavy Frankie/Herriman. If you've read No Bounds, you know I've got a thing for it. Well, they're a couple here. Deal with it or leave. I will hunt you down and make your life a living hell if you flame me. That is all.

Welcome to My Nightmare

Chapter One: Transgression

Rain streamed down the open windows and shattered both the silence and the warmth. Even so, the denizen hardly paid it any mind. Instead, he knelt by the small, blue imaginary friend and stroked his face. The creature shuddered, too weak to protest, eyes full of pain. The instant his hand touched him, he quaked and moaned. The color drained from him and he lay, white and prone on the hardwood floor.

Snickering to himself, the figure rose gracefully, his cloak sweeping around his black jeans as he began to pace. Every once in a while, his dark violet eyes would halt on Bloo, then resume glancing at whatever occupied his attention. The only sounds to break the silence were the pounding of rain on the windowsill and Bloo's rasps. Otherwise, boots scuffed silently and the stranger scarcely drew breath himself.

"Where is your master?" he said abruptly, stopping a good distance from the imaginary friend and scowling like he befouled him by existing. Indeed, he truly thought that.

"Huh?" he moaned, pushing against the floor with his stubby appendages to no avail. A wave of nausea and pain cascaded upon the poor friend and he slipped back down. Splinters wedged themselves inside and he cried out, picking at them agitatedly.

"Your _master_," the man spat, nudging him with a black boot. "Are you stupid? I know you're imaginary, but this is no excuse for ignorance."

Swallowing hard, aware of the abuse he had already suffered at this man's hands, he glanced once more, pleadingly up at him. Everything ached and what didn't ache throbbed. Even when he and Mac fought, he never received this level of torture. He'd never consciously attack him…or beat him to within an inch of his life. At the thought, his chest constricted and he bit back a howl. The boot nudged him harder, kicking him into the wall. Rain poured down, drenching the imaginary friend.

"If…I knew where he was, I'd tell you!" he squawked. Tears flooded his eyes and he whimpered, hugging himself tightly. Couldn't he leave him alone? It'd been hours and yet, no matter what answer he gave, he was never satisfied.

"Liar! You know perfectly well where he is! You're protecting him! _Filth!_" he sneered, kicking him square into the far corner. Bloo skidded, collecting dust that caused him to sneeze and aggravate an already tender body. His heart hammered in his chest- he was about to die here. His life flashed before his eyes…and he longed for Mac so badly, it rivaled his physical pain.

"I…I'm not! I swear!" he croaked, sobbing. Every wail drained more than he could afford and his world shimmered before his eyes. Maybe he'd be lucky and pass out. Already, his perceptions faded and dissipated. _Don't let me betray them…_

"**_Tell me_**!" he thundered, raining kick upon kick on his tender frame. Bloo screamed once more…the world dimmed…

"Worthless. Kill him."

It faded to black.

* * *

"He's late," he remarked, frowning lightly. "I knew he shouldn't have been allowed to go out to the surface."

Mac clenched his fists; he stared dully ahead of him at the microwave. All appliances and furnishings had been purchased by either helpers or people who weren't known as creators. That alone was difficult to hide since creators tended to be branded immediately once their creations were unleashed. They were permitted to keep them for a small amount of time- and then stand by as they were executed. Mac hadn't…and that made him a target.

Worse yet, he'd fallen in love with his imaginary friend and the two shared the sweetest love, but only below ground in their base. Otherwise, Bloo was forbidden to surface and Mac behaved like he'd never heard the name "Blooregard". It was better this way, despite his protests. It was either that or watch as his imaginary friend was blown to pieces. He couldn't handle that.

"He'll be fine," Frankie assured, laying a hand on his shoulder. He smiled weakly, hardly placated. A large, imaginary rabbit donning a mini vest, a top hat, and monocle scrutinized her and he scarcely refrained from rolling his eyes. Though they hadn't made it public, anyone with half a brain in their head knew why she lived down here with him. After all, she had no imaginary friend of her own and no stigma to keep her. Therefore, no logical reason to stay.

But Mac knew better. He caught the sidelong glances the two shared and spotted him slipping an arm around her when he thought no one was looking. He heard her blurt out odd things about him that she oughtn't to know and then there was the way she beheld him. Nothing could obscure the adoration in her green orbs…or the love in his. However, Mac was smart enough to know if they weren't ready to admit to anyone else, he wasn't going to spell out disaster.

"He's been gone for too long," he countered, laying his chin on the table morosely. "He just wanted a bag of chips from the corner store. He shouldn't have been stopped. He's wearing that disguise we rigged up that makes him look like a human."

All imaginary friends had one, in the rare instance they wished to venture to the surface or simply wanted fresh air. Some had even rigged theirs to be more than an illusion, which brought him back to Herriman and Frankie. However, his thoughts were too laden with concern for Bloo to ponder their peculiar situation for too long. Besides, that really wasn't any of his business.

He ground his teeth and glared at the cupboards. Of course, Bloo would risk everything to get a damn bag of chips. Never mind the last imaginary to wander to the surface had never been seen again. Never mind that Mac had begged and pleaded with him to reconsider. Never mind the physical danger implicit or the unspoken peril. Never mind everything; he had to go up there and get his damn chips!

Slamming his fist on the table (Frankie and Mr. Herriman jumped); he tore his gaze away from them and towards the open kitchen door. It swung back and forth thanks to the imaginary rabbit's entrance. Oddly, observing it made his blood rise and his fists clenched. He had to go after him. This was ludicrous. He'd been gone for too long.

"_Don't_," she pleaded, the hand on his shoulder tightening its grip threateningly. Mr. Herriman hopped closer, his paw brushing her free right hand. Unconsciously, she reached out to take it into her own, but their eyes fell upon Mac and they flinched.

"It is far too dangerous; regardless of the physical danger Master Blooregard may have placed himself in-" Mr. Herriman started, trying to show affection to Frankie subtly. He failed miserably.

"That's exactly why I have to go!" he replied, snatching his red blazer off the chair and tugging it on. Frankie frowned, placing both hands down upon his shoulders and forcing him to sit. Rebellious chestnut eyes fixed firmly on her verdant jade ones, but she neither forsook her position or relinquished any power. Her voice became steely.

"That's exactly why you have to stay _here_. It's bad enough he ran off; we don't need you dashing about like a chicken without a head," she snapped and frowned when Herriman winced at the analogy. Sometimes, she forgot he was an animal at all. With that device, it became very easy indeed.

"And I am quite certain that he took his transformation device, anyway. He would not be so foolhardy as to run to the store without it…" But his voice trailed off as a tall, lanky imaginary friend with only one arm, stitches, and a googly eye entered, sneakers squeaking. He glanced at Herriman, Frankie, and finally Mac with a look so grave, it gave them goosebumps.

He pulled out a belt, straps dangling off his hand. It was metallic with a green jewel inset in the center and it shone under the fluorescent lights. Once equipped, it fit any imaginary friend and could be activated with a press of the green jewel. However, this one clearly wasn't.

"You mean _this_?" he said slowly and silence descended upon the room. Not only had Bloo gone out alone, but he'd forgotten his most important item- the transformer.

* * *

Turning from her window ledge, she glanced at the pitiful specimen lain before her. The only indication it still lived was its occasional tremors. Otherwise, it could have been any random blue blob, well, nearly chalk white now thanks to the beatings. Raised purple welts decorated its upper body and dark red marks where blood occasionally still trickled. It pooled on her rich rug distastefully.

"I don't know whether I should kill you or serve you as dessert," she sneered, nudging the creature with her foot. It rasped, moaning pitifully. She'd never heard a creature closer to death than this, but it refused to give up. Hmm, extraordinary. Perhaps she'd abstain from plunging it into the pool and drowning it to study its habits.

"Mac…" it whispered, the softest sound she could ascertain. "Mac...help…"

Frowning lightly, she leaned down and stroked its face. It shivered, unconsciously sliding away from her. More blood pooled on the carpet. Even if it killed itself in the process, it was going to fight her every step of the way. Admirable, but foolish. It'd gain far more by working with her- she might actually save it. Otherwise, she'd fling it into the garbage like she did all the other useless imaginary friends.

"Mac isn't here right now," she murmured, scooping it up roughly. It struggled, protested, and finally passed out again.

"But I can take a message."

Digging her nails into its head, she hissed, "Tell me everything."

* * *


	2. Frigid

Author's Note/Disclaimer: Well, thanks for all the responses, guys. I really do appreciate it. (smiles) I don't have too much to say to you guys except please keep it up and, uh, to the person who wanted the Wilt/Ed- well, first off, this isn't a fanfic simply for pairings. They're not the main story.

Second, I don't really like Wilt. Sorry. So I'm not really going to have much interaction with him and if I do, I really doubt that I'm gong to be focusing a ton on him and Eduardo.

Moving on- Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends does not belong to me. This idea and DIE do.

* * *

Chapter Two: Frigid

"No."

Like the crystalline icicles dangling off the edges of houses, his cry was frozen and hung awkwardly in the air. Mac shivered, shoving his mittens inside his red wool jacket but pulling one out to draw his hood further over his eyes. They darted here and there to determine where Bloo's tracks lead. Unfortunately, the snow was not his ally. It fell thick and fast, obliterating any chance of him immediately determining where his imaginary friend had gone. Besides, any he'd deigned ended squarely at the convenience store's electronic doors.

Balling his fists, he glared at the now closed store to determine unfathomable answers. All clues pointed to Bloo either never arriving or being ambushed immediately afterwards. DIE had offices all around the city and their clandestine work, performed in secret labs, would be doubtlessly where they brought him. The sheer hopelessness of the situation made him grit his teeth and bite back a frustrated howl. There had to be something he'd overlooked.

Few people passed him in the streets and not simply because of the snow's cascade. The sun was setting and unless you wished to be stopped by guards posted on the street corners, you'd bustle home. Since Foster's foundation underground twenty-five years ago, obtaining food, necessities, and leisure objects fell to spies and "sliders", whose presence in the main stream society DIE created was virtually non-existent. These were ones without imaginary friends and nothing other than fealty to Madame Foster and her cause holding them there. Often, they risked life and limb to ensure Foster's continued its legacy. He admired their tenacity, though right now he sincerely wished Bloo had left his foraging to them instead of wandering off on his own.

_Especially since he left his belt at home_, he thought, shivering, not entirely thanks to the chill. Of all friends, he and Mr. Herriman were among the least humanoid and therefore, most likely to be halted and the penalty for being caught without a child was either capture or death. Yet, naturally, Bloo knew and disregarded this. His utter lack of concern for his well being irritated Mac deeply, but his concern outweighed his annoyance. With his mouth, he didn't envision DIE members keeping him around for too long. They'd rather make him target practice.

Thanks to his tenuous mental link with him, he could traverse the city for hours and come up empty handed. The sad truth of the reality was he might never find him. His heart ached and he sniffled, partly due to the cold. Maybe he was playing a prank. Maybe he'd reappear somewhere with a bag of chips and a grin plastered on his face.

Even so, he knew that was unlikely. First, this was not exactly something one joked about. He knew for a fact if any of the friends vanished on their creators, they'd flip out and start panicking like he. Second, too many friends vanished and never came back. All because of stupid above ground expeditions…

"Bloo, this isn't funny," he growled. No answer. The wind eddied and ebbed, rustling his chestnut hair.

"Bloo, come out, damn it!"

No answer. In the back of his mind, someone tore into his beloved and he stood, irresolute and utterly helpless. He shut his eyes to focus on the direction of his anguish, but it was too weak and far to pinpoint. Bloo was hurting…and he was standing in the snow bank and letting it happen.

* * *

Frankie glanced at the clock and then at the worried purple furred friend before her. So many of these talks had occurred around the kitchen table, far too many for her tastes. She often ended up placating friends and assuring them their friends would return, regardless of the truth of the matter. Now, she had to convince Eduardo of the same. Unfortunately, since she was wrought with panic over Mac's state as well as Bloo's, her words weren't as helpful as they might have been. Mr. Herriman was off, ensuring imaginary friends understood the implicit danger in leaving though they already memorized the rules. He did this every time one turned up missing.

She sighed heavily, looking out for Wilt in the hopes he might take him off her hands. The two were best friends, maybe more, but that wasn't her business. She hardly encouraged relationships, given how often friends vanished. It reminded her of her own relationship and how tenuous _that _was. She didn't know what she'd do if Herriman had gone up to the surface and never came back. At the thought, her stomach wrenched and she swallowed hard.

"Bloo es coming back, right?" Eduardo murmured, fearful and on the verge of tears. She hugged herself tightly, not trusting herself to speak.

Too many creatures vanished and after being gone for two hours, the prospects were grim. "Too late, it's gone, it won't come back." First Cheese (though a few less than polite friends were wont to say that his disappearance was a blessing in disguise) and then Uncle Pockets, both within one month. DIE was getting desperate and with that desperation, a suddenly flux in attacks and assaults. News reached them of random people getting beaten for information they never possessed.

"Sure, Ed," she replied absently, wishing Herriman would hurry up and return to her. Though he'd told her repeatedly there was nothing to fear, that he'd never be captured, she knew that of all the imaginary friends, he was the highest on their list. That was why he almost never journeyed to the surface, even for carrots (which she liked to limit him considering he acted like a drug addict after eating them). He was directly connected to Madame Foster and therefore, the perfect target. Whenever he ventured upwards, she insisted on accompanying him and sticking almost painfully close.

"You es worried, Frankie?" he called fretfully, placing his clawed paw atop her hand. Somber jade eyes met his amethyst orbs and she pulled away. She'd failed him and everyone by not being eternally optimistic, but when her own loved one could be just like the others…well, it didn't bear thought. She shivered.

Not to mention Mac had always exercised as much caution with Bloo as she did with Herriman. More so, because Bloo hated living underground. She remembered when the two came down here, he'd had to yank the blob down because he insisted on clutching the asphalt and street frantically. He spent the next two weeks declaring that this would kill him. He pretended he was about to die, gasped for air, and put his creator in a panic. Then again, Mac _had _only been about six when this happened. Considering the traumatic turn of events his life had taken, it wasn't hard to worry him in those days.

Orphaned, his only sibling abandoning him, he'd been too shocked to do anything but let Bloo talk for him. Then again, his mother had been killed in front of him for defending him. She'd been a rising compatriot of Madame Foster's and insisted that not only did her son deserve Bloo, but they deserved a happy childhood together. Her rousing speech only inspired them to silence her forever.

Terrence, terrified, sped off and was never heard from again. From her understanding, Mac and Bloo had lived on the streets for a while until Mac heard of Foster's underground system and convinced his friend (albeit with a great deal of difficulty) to join. Then again, that version might be skewed, considering Bloo was the one who told her in the first place.

Maybe his propensity to rework the truth in his favor would save his skin. Maybe he'd be clever enough to weasel his way out of their clutches. Maybe he'd keep his mouth shut long enough to avoid being killed. Maybe, but the odds were stacked against him.

_I hope, for Mac's sake, he finds him…otherwise…_

She couldn't bring herself to complete the sentence.

* * *

"No!" Bloo cried, for an entirely different reason than his creator. His body quaked, but he maintained control. Well, relatively speaking. Hot tears streamed down thanks to the weapons and physical abuse she reaped. He'd never wanted to hurt someone more in his life. He stubbornly wiped his eyes and spat in her face.

Two chains snaked their way out of the wall and their shackles bound his arms. Unlike other prisoners before him, however, they were rather loose and the chains themselves were rusted thanks to various imaginaries' powers. Bloo eyed them capriciously and rattled them soundlessly to test their endurance. His lower arms slipped and slid within. This might have its benefits.

Meanwhile, his strawberry, curly haired investigator paced, apparently deep in thought. He swung back and forth, wincing as his bruises were rubbed raw by the rust. His entire lower body was unconfined and that was the secret to his escape. In a few minutes, with a bit more musing, he ought to be able to slip out from under her.

Like all the investigators, her mission was to pry, albeit through torture or any other means, Foster's bases' location and his creator's identity. Unfortunately, his muttering of "Mac" proved useless because it matched nothing in their databases and could have been a lover, not a creator. Thought the thought disgusted, humans had been known to develop relationships with their imaginary friends or others'. Some couples they knew about, others they remained ignorant. It was those that worried them the highest, because those clearly were the biggest areas of concern. Who knew what power they wielded?

Those most corrupt in their power always feared someone overturning them at a moment of weakness. DIE was no exception. Though they loathed and appalled all imaginary friends and their creators, a secret part of them feared them. Anything they didn't understand was unsettling and best left to the incinerator. Emotions such as compassion and love were beyond them.

Clearly, this creature and his creator shared something akin to this and they had to figure out what and how so they could shut it down permanently. Stomp out all objections until they had absolute control and obedience, especially from Eleanor Foster and her clan. She was a blight on their radar, the scratch they just could not reach. They'd corrupted society thirty five years ago, but her last proclamation, that they would silence her and her followers when they pried Mr. Herriman from her cold, dead fingers, haunted them. More so than random imaginary friends, they sought information regarding _her_. So far, nothing. No imaginaries would talk and those who did lied. They were loyal to her to the end…and thus irritated them to no end. Would no one give them the information they sought?

Wiping off her face, she procured a long, extremely sharp knife and jabbed it at his stomach. All struggling ceased and the only indication of his inner fight was the fire burning in his eyes and utter loathing contorted his features. Despite his aversion to their "methods", he hated her too much to let anything slip. He'd rather bite, punch, or kick than admit anything. However, she didn't know this. Nor did she know about the wheels churning in his mind…

"Tell me what you know about Eleanor Foster, creator of an imaginary friend named 'Herriman'," she snapped suddenly, lunging and catching the knife point in his throat. Blood pooled and she snickered, certain she had him where she wanted. He coughed, blood in his mouth, and then, raising his head defiantly, spat in her eyes.

"No way in hell, bitch," he snarled, yanking on his chains. They finally gave and he fell hard to the floor. It smacked him in the face, but he knew he had to take advantage of her temporary incapacitation (she frantically rubbed her eyes). He swiftly, despite his many injuries, rose to his feet and then darted out of the room. She swore softly, spurting to the door to lock it, but, like a bullet out of a gun, he evaded her. He then hopped up, locked the door, cackled, and took off.

The hallways were a myriad of drones, occasional lab workers, and a devilish blue blur. Overhead, the pipes burst, splattering water everywhere and causing many people to choke on their coffee or wince as now ceiling plaster joined it. People halted, stared, and before they could even open their mouths, he sped by. Electronic devices crackled and exploded in his wake.

"That'll teach you to capture me!" he cackled, avoiding the sparks and irate workers. The electronic doors whooshed open and, to this day, only the main interrogator had the faintest clue what was going on. Of course, they didn't get her testimony for a few hours. She was too busy banging on her locked door.

* * *


	3. Strife

Author's Note/Disclaimer: Well, I'm sure you who have reviewed know by now, but if you review, I'll rely via the new thing on this site. It's quick, it's easy, and it'll probably answer your questions as soon as possible. Responding to reviews in the story is now against the rules, though I'd stopped that a while ago since I got repetitive.

So, yeah, if you review, I'll send off a reply. ;) And thank you to everyone who reviewed! Eight reviews a chapter is awesome!

Foster's does not belong to me.

Chapter Three: Strife

Once his initial adrenaline rush passed, his numerous injuries afflicted him simultaneously and he collapsed onto his knees. Wind whipped past his face; he shivered, more determined than ever to rise. The will to survive informed him unless he wished to freeze to death; he'd force his tired, sore body to its upright position. However, the prospect of rising now, with every muscle in his body screaming, hardly appealed to him. A blanket of snow began to cover him…and his eyes closed…

* * *

The world was hard and cruel, especially to small imaginary friends. Humans passing Bloo on the street hardly wasted a second glancing at him, much less aid him. Cars heaped dirty water atop the snow covering his frame. In a few moments, he would become part of the snow bank. That was, if someone didn't stumble upon him soon.

* * *

Meanwhile, not three feet away, Mac cupped his hands around his mouth and called him as loudly as he dared. Unfortunately, that wasn't sufficient to wake him, but enough to earn some very nasty looks. A few cursed him off, but he ignored them. Instead, he balled his fists in his pockets, remembered what Madame Foster had always told him about DIE supporters, and ignored them. 

_They're incapable of caring about anyone but themselves. They're inhuman but pitiable. You always have to have compassion for those who cannot learn it themselves. Remember- there is a reason you're here. DIE supporters exist aimlessly; they have nothing to fight for and nothing to lose. That's a very dangerous combination._

Wind swept his hair and a small mound off a bundle on the ground. The snow bank convalesced, purple bruises littering its back. However, its consistency varied from the rest. Mac, intrigued, knelt down and brushed away more snow. Beneath his gloved hands, the gelatinous texture trembled and quaked. The smallest of whimpers escaped it. Bending over further, he discerned low rasps.

Disregarding any observers, he scooped up the small creature and turned it over. What he saw nearly made him drop the already frigid imaginary friend from whence he came. (Considering his probable body temperature, prolonged exposure to the elements would soon kill him if he carelessly deposited him). He'd never seen him in a sorrier state, not even when he insisted on his "harebrained" schemes. The color drained from Mac's face and resembled Bloo's. With a gasp, he clutched Bloo as closely to him as he could and, glancing back and forth, spurted forward.

He skidded to a halt in the snow and swiftly snatched a nearby frozen metal stop sign to regain his balance. Posters decorated the side of a store and among them was a picture of Mr. Herriman and Madame Foster. He skimmed through to the reward and once more nearly dropped his beloved. Alive, the imaginary rabbit was worth ten thousand dollars and dead, five thousand. However, his creator was in the six figure amount alive…and seven dead. He drew back, sickened.

A figure approached and he hastily shoved Bloo underneath his jacket. Fortunately, the jacket was large enough so the protrusion was not exceedingly noteworthy. Nonetheless, his palms sweat profusely and he forced a bored look instead of the appalled one. The thought of bounty hunters collecting on her reward disgusted him to the very marrow of his bones. She'd taken him in when he needed a home. She'd given many friends and creators places to reside when DIE chased after them. She cared for her imaginary friend like a human and other imaginary friends like they were worth more than a bullet in the head. She was a sweet, wise old lady and the closest thing to a grandmother Mac had ever had. His blood boiled.

The closer the figure got, the clearer her outfit became. A form fitting DIE uniform hugged her hips- the customary black t-shirt and baggy black sweatpants stood out clearly against her lily white skin. Vibrant, silky red hair cascaded down her back and jade eyes flashed, alert and ready to apprehend any creator and or imaginary friend. Her cheekbones, the way she held herself, all excepting the cold, malevolence in her expression and body; she could have been Frankie's double. His blood ran cold and he barely managed to sneak into an alleyway before his body froze and he found himself listening intently to a conversation between her and her superior.

"Is there any imaginary _filth_ around here?" a low, gravely voice snarled and the girl smirked, tugging her hair into a pigtail. Mac swallowed hard, unable to tear his eyes away. Resplendent with the tie, she was a dead ringer for her.

"No, sir," she replied, checking an odd watch. It beeped shrilly, she swore loudly, and took off. Clouds of powdery snow flew in her wake, but before she traveled too far, he called back to her. Irritation flashed across her face and he had the distinct impression she'd rather be the one calling the shots, not subservient to a man. He had also had the impression that if he wasn't careful, her boss would find himself on the receiving end of a five bullet salute.

"And Vicky, if I find out that you were lying to me, you can kiss your job and your life goodbye."

Muttering uncouthly under her breath, she stalked off and, without further preamble, Mac sped towards a Foster's underground entrance with Bloo pressed against him.

* * *

She shut her eyes and absorbed the darkness enveloping her. Another lost soul thanks to DIE, another lost chance to regain Foster's former glory. Another wasted relationship, another lost love. When would the cycle end? When would children grown up without fear or trepidation? When would children like Mac be allowed to be open with their feelings? Or would the world forever dwell in shadows and hatred? 

Sighing heavily, she hugged herself. She wished there was a simple answer to life's problems. She wished people and imaginary friends would stop hurting like there was no tomorrow. She wished she could be confident that the tomorrow after this would be anything but this. She wished so many things…and none of it would come true.

"It's enough to make you stop believing in fairy tale endings," she whispered, clenching her eyes shut. A single tear trickled down her cheek, but before it reached the nape of her neck, a delicate paw brushed it aside. Her heart skipped a beat, but the paw and the soft, silky fur against her cheek vanished. She frowned, adding another wish to her list. However, the instant the thought struck her, the door locked shut. She released a breath of air she hadn't known she'd been holding.

"If you do not believe, Miss Frances, who will?" Mr. Herriman murmured, caressing her face with his pads. She sighed happily, turning his paw over so she could rub against his fur. Though it was hard to tell, she could swear he smiled.

"You are the only one who here who has no imaginary friend and no real bonds to tie you here. You are not within Madame Foster's employ, you are not paid-" he began stiffly, taken aback when she flung herself into his arms. The smile softened and he wrapped his arms around her; he shifted so they lay upon her bed. So many nights spent like this, just lying in each other's arms. No words were needed, no further commitment on their parts. Being together was its own testament against DIE.

"I don't need to be paid to love you," she whispered, burying her face in his warm, furry chest. He pulled off his other glove to run his bare paw along her cheek and she snuggled closer. He wrapped his arms around her waist, she around his neck and the two lay like that for hours, needing naught but each other's company.

* * *

Madame Foster, meanwhile, paid close attention to the local news and any DIE reports. Of course, the media was inundated with DIE influenced news and could hardly be trusted for unbiased coverage, but it didn't hurt to check. In the back of her mind, while she mentally noted everything, Herriman's joy, centered as always around Frankie, made her smile. Nothing like little distractions to stop your mood from becoming bleak; this was a very easy thing here. Hope was fostered by the Fosters, but she knew her granddaughter's spirits were buoyed by her imaginary friend. If she was that susceptible to this, then so were others. 

Shaking her head, she studied between the lines. Another imaginary friend slipped out from underneath their clutches, another failure. She chuckled, enjoying this immensely. Of course, when the information revealed who in fact it was (though never how he managed to evade them), she let out a whoop that frightened poor Eduardo on the adjacent couch. He covered his eyes with his paws and cautiously glanced at her between gaps in his claws.

"I _knew _he had it in him!" she cheered, pumping her fists in the air. Wilt, sneakers naturally squeaking, glanced from her to a cowering Eduardo. He placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, one which the imaginary bull-like creature seized upon and proceeded to use it to flip him over onto his lap on the couch. Wilt landed, blinking in confusion, and stared blankly.

"Go Bloo, go Bloo!" she rooted, dancing around. "You teach them!"

Eduardo wrapped his furry arms around Wilt until he couldn't breathe. Meanwhile, Madame Foster paraded around the room. They didn't see a cause for celebration...but when you live in a world where everything is difficult and you can't take anything for granted, even the little things count.

* * *

Through gritted teeth, a petite young woman addressed her inferiors. Golden tresses twirled around her head, but if you thought she was a "dumb blonde", you would be very much mistaken. And, in the case of Berry, very much dead. She tolerated no dereliction, particularly from those she thought ought to know better. Of course, anyone who worked under her ought to know better and therefore, nothing against her was tolerated. The punishment for turning traitor was severe, but, in her mind, the only absolute- death. 

Flinging herself into a chair, she carefully smoothed her pink blouse over a mysterious belt on her waist. Fortunately, she'd the foresight to invest in a diminutive version of the ones others used, but even so, every time she had company, its presence troubled her. One of these days, hopefully soon, she wouldn't need it at all. Unfortunately for now, to keep up appearances, she had to protect herself.

"You let him escape, didn't you?" she snapped, digging her bright pink nails into her palm. Anyone else might have hissed in pain, but she held it all in stride. Pain was a natural part of life, like breathing. Anyone who thought otherwise was a fool…or part of Foster's.

The mere recollection of her opposite made her skin crawl and her teeth clench in rage. Thirty six years ago, hardly a large amount of time for someone like her to endure, she'd been asked to join them after some _unpleasantness_. She'd been down on her luck like many imaginary friends were under her regime and in desperate need of assistance. However, rather than lower herself to a world full of what she deemed false sympathy and fake concern, she spat in their faces and forged her own way. What did she need of pathetic imaginary friends who clung to the idea that their humans would forever love them? What did she need of traitorous humans who professed care and concern for their imaginary friends yet left them out in the cold? To hell with them all!

If her creator couldn't care enough to keep her around, then why should any other creators have that luxury? Imaginary friends deserved better than their stupid humans. If only they would break the shackles bonding them to their creators, they would live a much longer, more fulfilling life. Then she wouldn't have to eliminate them one by one to get to her real target nor would she have to punish them as harshly as their creators. If only they understood that if they left their origins, they would be protected. Besides, humans were incapable of truly caring for their imaginary friends. Hers hadn't cared for her.

Then what earned Madame Foster such fealty? Why had her imaginary friend stood by her year after year? How strong were they really? When had her forces grown so strong? And why did they support her so strongly? What was her secret?

Berry knew how she ruled- with an iron fist and fear. After all, what better way to ensure loyalty? Yet she doubted the old lady struck terror in her compatriots. No, her followers bided their tongues for another reason entirely. No matter how many times she tried, no one let anything slip. It was infuriating, especially since this latest recruit witnessed their last capture literally dart out on them. The first and last friend to survive a q and a, she decided. The next one would die.

Nodding absently, she dismissed him and oddly enough, didn't order torture. Drumming her fingers together, she waited until no one could possibly catch her and turned the dial to her normal form. Without the added burden of human weight and bones, she finally felt free. Lamentably, with freedom came great responsibility. If anyone around here were to see her in this guise, she would be murdered on the spot. Such were the risks implicit in her job.

Stretching her blobby purplish pink arms outward, she hoisted herself out the window, onto the ledge, and skidded across the snow. Damn, she'd quite forgotten how hard it was snowing when she was within the confines of her office. Perhaps she'd better switch back to her human form unless she desired to freeze to death. Now to adjust her transformer and…

She froze, staring back into her locked office. One of her inferiors stared back at her, nonplussed. He cocked a tranquilizer dart gun to take her into custody (she assumed he thought her to be a Foster's imaginary friend) and she pulled out a small handgun. The man crumpled, dead before he hit the ground.

Exhaling sharply, she proceeded on her way to locate any lingering imaginary friends and coax them to her side. A lot of her members were brainwashed imaginaries who hadn't yet found Foster's. That exactly where she wanted them- right before her enemy caught them. Then, they were vulnerable and eager to hear anything good, especially if it brought fresh meals and warm beds. The ability to torture, hurt, and maim were only gained through brainwashing, however, since very few friends joined if they knew they would be harming their fellow creatures.

Now, though she thought she'd find that little blue blob. He couldn't have gotten far on those injuries. And when she did…he'd come over to her or die. There was no other option.

* * *


	4. Berry

Author's Note/Disclaimer: Thank you to everyone who reads and reviews. I really appreciate that, if you couldn't tell by my prompt review replies. And, uh, if you don't leave your e-mail address when you review, I can't reply, not even in the chapter. It's now against the rules.

Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends does not belong to me.

Chapter Four: Berry

Incognito, Berry hid behind a corner and watched Mac open his jacket and scrutinize the small blob inside. According to what she'd pried unwillingly, this was the creature that incited everything. Intriguing, considering its obvious height disadvantage. Its simple shape and design reminded her of hers. Either his creator was a genius to utilize shapeless in a world where large, obstructive imaginary friends would be conspicuous…or he emulated hers. The mere notion made her grit her teeth and coil her blobby arms into fists. How _dare _her creator leave her like that!

Toggling her transformer into a more humanoid imaginary friend (but avoiding her human guise), she continued to trail them. Already, she felt a kinship with this friend. He was young, naïve, and just like her. That meant, just like her, he could lose his creator when he least expected it. She had to spare him that. She had to spare all imaginary friends the agony of losing their creators by convincing them she was better. Humans were liars, callous, and incapable of providing the care they merited. He deserved better than this weak person.

Tousled brown hair shook this way and that in the wind as he massaged the creature's face in an attempt to warm him. She smirked, mentally noting the damage her crew had wrecked on him. All that torture, and still nothing. Well, there had to be a way to break that loyalty. _Nothing _was unbreakable. She'd tear him from his creator, he'd join her, and they would put an end to this charade. Foster's would be no more and imaginary friends would rule over humans.

"Come on, buddy, wake up," he whispered urgently, chary not to massage the tender bruises. Regardless, he moaned and then nestled closer to his chest. She narrowed her eyes. Oh, so sweet and oh, so fake. There was no such thing as sincerity from them. She knew firsthand.

"What did they _do _to you?" he whispered, lifting him up to kiss him softly on the top of the head. Eyelids fluttered, he moaned again, and then rubbed against him like a cat. The teenager stared blankly, blushing slightly, and gently tucked him back in. However, before he could step another few feet, she shifted out of the shadows. Enough was enough. This human disgusted her.

"No more than was necessary," she snarled, wintry breeze brushing past her pink pigtails. In this form, she looked nary older than him, but her violet eyes bespoke torturous years and painful secrets. A pink leather jacket wrapped firmly around her waist; she donned a pair of ineffectual pink glasses, a long, pink leather skirt and knee high pink boots. Even her skin radiated more neon than normal. A stray rabbit's foot dangled out of her hip pocket.

He growled, hastily zipping up his jacket in case she wanted to harm him further. Weak blobby arms pounded; he was almost entirely cognizant and as much as he loved him, he desired no part of suffocation by winter jacket. She smirked, shivering and putting on pink leather gloves. Head to toe, she was covered in another's skin. In fact, her pigtails were tied back with leather strips.

"_You _did this to him!" he retorted, ignoring his imaginary friend for the moment. He unzipped enough to give him some air, but not to let him speak sans muffling. By his sides, he balled his fists. She bit back a laugh- him, fight her? Why, with her transformer, she could easily overpower him. Or did he truly think she was human? Was he blind or just stupid?

Instead of answering, she pitched the rabbit's foot at his chest. Deftly, caught off guard, he managed to catch it. Blinking in bewilderment, he turned it over in his palm. A moment passed before she spoke, a moment in which a small blue blob stuck his head out of the opening in his jacket and inhaled deeply. He opened his mouth to criticize his creator when Berry spoke, overriding him.

"Give _that _to Herriman when you get back. Tell him I _will _have the real thing off him…and I will wear his pelt as a belt," she snarled, pivoting on her heel and leaving. No, she wouldn't follow them into the base this time around. She'd let him come to her and when the time was right, she'd strike swiftly and horribly. Mr. Herriman and his incorrigible creator would rue the day they tangled with her.

* * *

Snow crunched underfoot as she wended her way back to headquarters. Unfortunately, though she preferred this guise to her normal, she simply could not take the chance one of her workers would see her and then apprehend her as an imaginary friend. Anyone who happened upon her identity was shot quickly, like before. It was simply too dangerous. People entrusted with her secret would betray her and then try to steal her power. It was inevitable.

Regardless, that little blue blob occupied her thoughts. Surely one akin to her would have her ruthless and strength. Surely he would make a suitable mate as well, never mind his age. A little training, perhaps a smidgen brainwashing and he would be all hers. She relished the challenge.

Besides, it had been too long since she'd a companion like that. Years, in fact. Never mind sexual partners- those came and went. No, the last time she'd had a soulmate was nearly thirty seven years ago, when her creator...No, she vowed never to think about it again. The mere recollection caused tears of outrage and upset to flood her eyes and she was not weak enough to sob over a human. Never mind how much that human had meant to her and how it ached to consider her loss. Never mind that she'd never found another sympathetic soul she thought she could trust…

Once upon a time, she thought she'd loved her. Everything had been perfect; they'd shared everything, including dreams. Holding hands under the magnolia tree, they'd stared up at the branch "parapet" and said they'd be friends forever. Five months later, they'd vowed to never leave each other. Six months after that…she'd lied. She'd had the audacity to die on her and abandon her. She couldn't even take her with her.

Pounding her fist into her palm, she marched off towards her office. She had to hurt someone and badly. She wished now she'd followed him to locate Herriman. Tearing his foot off, hearing his screams, and watching him try to hop around on a bloody stub would amuse her greatly. Not to mention beating him to a pulp as well, lording over him as he died at her hands. His anguished screams would slowly turn into whimpers and then nothing at all- they were quiet in the end. It was death's lullaby. The death of her oldest rivals would be the best present, almost as good as her creator's return.

Eyes downcast, she leaned against a wall in an alleyway and gathered her thoughts. Even so, a tide of rage swept her. Together forever, hmph. That was a lie if she ever heard one. All humans were liars. They all abandoned their friends in one way or another and it was up to her to stop the abuse once and for all. That was why she started DIE in the first place.

Tossing her head haughtily, she ambled back in, the only indication of her upset by the nails digging into her palm and flinging another rabbit foot at a member.

* * *

Cold water streamed down her back and eased old wounds, despite her uncontrollable shivering. She gazed into the metal reflection of her human form and slammed her fist into it. Dull throbbing accompanied the shivers, but she smirked. Pain made her whole and showed she was above everything and everyone else. Humans and imaginaries reacting to pain and letting it rule them made them weak. After all, her own human had succumbed to it.

* * *

_"We're sorry, there's nothing we can do…the pain was too much. She's slipped into a coma."_

_He stated it so coldly, so matter of factly, that she wanted to gouge out his eyes to make him feel the agony she suffered. Didn't he know what anguish imaginary friends went through when they were this close to their creators and they were dying? Didn't he care? Her heart was being wrenched from her still living body and all he could say was "I'm sorry"!_

_Her creator's mother stood by and held her blobby arm, but she said nothing. In fact, no words of condolence escaped her nor ever would. She'd never wanted her daughter and, under the magnolia tree, Virginia had told her this much. She said that the only reason she was born was so her parents would have an heir. Nothing more._

_"Liar! You're doctors! You can save her! You're human, damn it! You're supposed to be better than this! You're supposed to be our creators, our saviors!" Berry shrieked, flinging herself at the door. She couldn't, wouldn't believe they couldn't help her. They were holding back. They wanted to make them suffer. They loved to see her cry. No one gave a damn about them._

_Unbidden, Virginia's words flowed back to her and she balled her fists, pounding on the wood. "I'll always be here…I love you, Berry…"_

_"Miss, please sit down. You're making a scene."_

_He gripped her around the waist and physically hoisted her away. Her anguished cries echoed around the corridor and in the back of her mind, she felt her creator fading…_

* * *

"LIAR! You **want **her dead!" Berry screamed, falling to her knees. Water poured down her back and soaked her pink hair. She hugged herself, biting back sobs. Even so, they streamed down her face and mixed with the cold, unforgivable liquid falling from the showerhead. At least her tears were warm…

A gentle rap on the door tore into her memories and she staggered to her feet; she leaned heavily on the shower door. One trembling hand reached out, shut off the faucet, and she snatched her transformer off the countertop. No one had better see this form. The last creature to was Virginia…and then she died. She died and left her here.

Strawberry blonde curls trailed down her back and she dressed, throwing them casually this way and that. Her creator's face stared back at her like it always did. Fury boiled within her and she slammed her fist against the mirror. Glass shards embedded themselves in her hand and poured to the floor. Pain arched across her hand, but she smiled. This was nothing. Was this the pain Virginia felt before she died? Then she was weak like all of them.

Ignoring her dripping palm, she opened the door with her uninjured right hand and smirked. A pale little boy, scarcely older than eight, whimpered in fear at her intimidating sight. Blood pooled on the floor with a steady drip. He retreated from it like it was diseased.

"Get me a bandage and clean that up, would you? I wouldn't want anyone slipping on that and trying to sue me. Not that they'd live to try, but you never know in this world," she said frigidly and when he stood there like a statue, she slapped him across the face. Red smudges lined his cheeks and the glass in her palm cut into him. Glass, like everything else, was a double edged sword. It was how you used your weapons that counted.

Swallowing hard, murmuring a response, he scurried away like a little rat. She watched the blood pool a while longer, then fetched a bandage herself. Feh, you could never count on ransomed and kidnapped help. They were always too meek to do the job right. Then again, in this world, she'd learned the hard way the only way to survive was to rely on yourself. There was no such thing as love (because if there was love, then how could she leave her?)

Pressing a cotton roll to staunch the flow, she glanced out the window where snow continued to fall steadily. She would lure him to her…he couldn't resist her...

* * *


	5. Truth

Author's Note/Disclaimer: Foster's is not mine. And if you read and review, I'll reply. Not hard to figure out, now, is it?

Chapter Five: Truth

Frankie paced the kitchen angrily and kicked the metal garbage can into the corner. It clanged against the fridge and all present cringed. Herriman frowned, placing a paw on her shoulder, but she brushed it off. The instant she opened her mouth to snap at him and thus, release the guilt and anxiety over Mac and Bloo, they entered, Bloo peeking out of his jacket and muttering uncouthly. She released the breath she hadn't known she'd been holding and swept the two up into a tight, bear hug. Finally, when neither could breathe, she held Mac at arm's length and then seated them.

"Well?" she snapped after a moment's pause. "What happened? I heard Bloo was captured and…"

She trailed off, inspecting him. Though he protested, she lifted him free of the chair and ran her fingers lightly over the bruises. Groans evolved into a sharp cry and he fought her wildly. The effort cost him dearly, however, and he landed heavily in Mac's lap. His breaths were deep and pained as he hurriedly concealed a now congealing blood mass on the back of his head. Apparently, there was a bit of metal submerged within and she'd nudged it.

"You have to let me take that out," she reprimanded and stepped closer to scoop him up. He retreated into Mac.

Meanwhile, Mac extricated the rabbit's foot out of his pocket and prepared to throw it out when Mr. Herriman's eyes locked on it. The color drained from his face and he snatched it out of his hands. Pale and trembling, he turned it over in his paws. Frankie stopped fussing over Bloo to glance over at him. She didn't much like his expression.

Dangling the chain between his pads, he turned towards Mac. Frankie began to speak, but he indicated silently she quiet. Hmphing, she started to interject when he spoke over her. The astonishment was replaced by cold fury burning in his eyes. He managed to maintain his composure, but the paw holding the offending article quaked. Even with gloves, he was trying not to touch it in any way, shape, or form.

"Master Mac, how did you come by _this_?" he said coolly, a shudder rippling through him. Under the fluorescent lights, the dried blood by the handle glittered maliciously. Apparently, she'd poached it herself. Personally, no one in the room really wanted to know how she'd gotten it as long as it was far, far away from here. The longer he held it, the more his paw trembled and, finally, Frankie placed her hand atop his to calm him.

"A girl gave it to me…well, she threw it at me," he said, frowning lightly. "Actually, come to think of it, she didn't really look like a girl. More like a humanoid imaginary friend."

After all, what humans had such bright skin they could pass for strip lights? Not even an abnormal amount of pigment or exposure to radiation would procure an odd effect like that. But it begged the question if she were an imaginary friend, why would she know about DIE and behave as though she belonged to it? No self respecting friend would join that heinous organization, regardless of the threats heaped upon them. After all, what did DIE offer other than verbal, physical, and emotional abuse?

Reflecting back on her appearance, he recalled the transformer snug around her middle. It'd been unusual enough to make him remember, since most imaginary friends hid it under clothing. They didn't like to boast of their natures, especially with DIE hovering over their shoulders like vultures. Who would be so brass as to deign superiority?

Stiffly, flinging the offending object onto the table where it lay, dormant and rather ominous, Mr. Herriman composed himself, yet every syllable communicated suppressed fury. Frankie held his paw in her hand, but the effort was wasted. He would not be waylaid by her attempts. This was a serious business and could not be ignored. Besides, every time his eyes darted to it, his stomach tumbled over. It was disgusting, but he was compelled to look at it, like someone drawn to a train wreck.

"And what did this girl look like?" he inquired, about to add more when this time, Frankie interjected. If it was possible, she was more furious than he over it. She had a pretty keen idea the symbolic nature of the object in question and her blood boiled. If looks could kill, it'd be torched to a crisp by now.

"Who _cares _what she looked like!" Frankie exploded, tearing her hand from his paw and pacing the room angrily. Madame Foster hobbled in and blinked, staring at her granddaughter. Narrowly, she sidestepped her lest she end up in her path of destruction. The garbage can flew another five feet, straight out the doorway. It skidded on the carpet beyond and then fell over. She cursed bitterly, but made no attempts to pick it up or the contents it spilled.

"I bet she thought it was funny to throw a rabbit foot at you," she snapped dangerously, slamming her palms on the table and leaning in so her face and Mac's were only about five inches apart. Unsettled, he swallowed hard and unconsciously pushed the chair back to separate them. An enraged Foster was a very hostile enemy, as experience had taught him well.

"I…I don't know what she thought," he murmured, glancing at Bloo for support. Still shaky, the imaginary blob positioned himself atop the counter and shoved her back. Unfortunately, the gesture was utterly useless. She shoved him over and only quick thinking led him to a relatively safe position on Mac's lap.

Musing aloud, he blurted, "I think she said that this was some sort of warning to Herriman…that she'd cut off his real foot and use his pelt as a belt."

The instant the words left his lips, he regretted it. A cacophony erupted, not the slightest of which was Frankie. The metal garbage can soared through the living room, slammed into a nearby wall behind the couch and spooked Eduardo into, once again, grabbing Wilt. Wilt, nonplussed, attempted to placate the now terrified guardian friend into calming down, but it was no use, not while Frankie was ranting and raving. They and everyone in the kitchen had to simply hang on for the ride (Mac and Bloo grabbed each other in a terror hug).

"What the hell is _wrong _with this girl!" she screamed, pacing angrily back and forth. Madame Foster darted out of the way again and seated herself before she found herself in harm's way. Fury blazed in Frankie's eyes and her fists balled. Bloo pressed himself against Mac and tried not to make too much noise. She might flip out on _him_ he wasn't careful.

"Who does she think she is? How _dare _she say that! When I get my hands on her, I'll wear _her _as a belt! I'll carry _her _foot around in my pocket!" she roared and whirled around, red hair flashing. It wasn't hard to picture it bursting into flames and then crackling at her temples.

Herriman tapped her on the shoulder, but she flung away his arm. Mac had the impression nothing quiet and meek would stop her rampage. She was like a raging tornado, especially with the way her hair kept whipping around. He longed to leave, but like Bloo, was terrified of being the new focus. Maybe it was better to let her die down of her own accord, whenever _that _was. The way she was going, it wouldn't be any time soon.

"Threaten _my _Herriman, will she?" she snarled. "I'll show her!"

"Miss Frances," Herriman said warningly, clearing his throat. Frankie stomped off, oblivious. In the relative quiet following her speech, her steps rang throughout the home. Eduardo whimpered, pressing his face into Wilt's soft red fur. Wilt, still stunned, tentatively wrapped an arm around him and stroked him.

Meanwhile, Bloo, who had buried his own face in Mac's stomach, glanced up to ascertain whether it was over. It wasn't and he returned to his place, wrapping his arms around him. Idly, Mac caressed the top of his head, careful to avoid any bruises. When this was over, he'd have to bandage him up and rub ointment on everything else. He hardly doubted Bloo would stay still for the task, but it was either that or let the wounds fester, which he had no intention of doing.

"They all think they're so high and mighty, well, I have news for them! No one hurts _my _H-"

"_Frankie_!" Mr. Herriman interjected and finally, she turned towards him. If she could, she'd probably snort fire.

"What?"

"What are you doing?" he said, frowning. _Are you **trying **to expose us?_

Deep crimson burned her cheeks and she hung her head. She couldn't help it- thinking about anyone hurting him enraged her, despite its very real possibility. That didn't excuse her behavior, though. And his own creator hadn't gotten as worked up as her, either. In fact, she was giving her a very odd look, acknowledging she'd gone overboard.

"I think I'm going to go check on Eduardo," she blurted, mortified. She darted out of the room, up the stairs, and into the closest room to the surface. Silence reigned after her passing; it was marred only by their breathing. Bloo poked his head out, Eduardo stopped clinging to Wilt, and Herriman cleared his throat.

Finally, sighing heavily, Madame Foster quietly slipped out of her seat, indicated Herriman follow her, and the two started off after her.

* * *

The world before DIE was like a fairy tale, told to good little boys, girls, and imaginary friends before bed. Though some areas were sugarcoated, the overall message was the same- before DIE, we were free. Always, the story was given a superfluous ending to represent their soon triumph over adversity, yet as the children and friends grew older, they soon saw how thin it really was. There was no sudden, terrible downfall of DIE and its followers. There was no silver lining, only clouds. And like their parents before them, the children became afraid…not of what bumps in the night, but what shoots in the day.

* * *


	6. Unnerved

Author's Note/Disclaimer: Thank you to everyone who's read and reviewed. If you're not reviewing, why not? I don't bite. :P And I'll be sure to reply unless you don't leave your e-mail. Then I can't help you.

Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends does not belong to me, but DIE does.

Chapter Six: Unnerved

Nightmares lasted until the sleeper woke, shrugged off their fears, and fell back asleep in a warm bed. By the morning, they were vague terrors in the middle of the night. They held as much sway over the creature as a pebble had over a riverbed. Lost in the ebbs and flows of the day, it drifted far and wide, always within reach but never fully realized. A moment might occur where it snagged and, eyes widened, one stopped to reflect, but otherwise, the pebble never impacted the stream significantly. It swayed, drifted, and vanished from the immediate focus.

Frankie still waited to wake. Daily, she opened her eyes only to find the low ceiling over her head and the omnipresent chill. She inhaled dirt's stale aroma and thanks to the sun's continued absence, she switched on a lamp. No sunlight _ever _permeated her room. Minus the alarm clock beside her, she could have stumbled, unaware if it was day or night.

As much as she hated it, she knew nothing else and refused to abandon her friends, grandmother, and lover. However selfishly she wanted a room aboveground, a window open to the world, she truly wanted it for everyone, not merely herself. If she desired, she could have everything the imaginary friends and humans dedicating themselves to the cause could not. She could have freedom and a normal life. But what was the point if she couldn't share it with the ones she loved?

She hated DIE passionately because irregardless of their atrocities against imaginary friends and humans, they roamed free. They killed her mother and left her on the streets (like Mac, in fact). Yet none punished them. Protestors were silenced. Foster's dwelled underground because aboveground, they too would be silenced. The situation's sheer hopelessness mixed and injustice frustrated her endlessly.

So what if she'd flipped out over a rabbit's foot? So what if they'd probably received the same threats time and time again? Every personal attack on him was one on her as well. She loved him too much to endure anything, despite its (often) impossibility. She loved him so much, it was dangerous. If anyone discovered he was her weakness, they'd be twice as keen to capture and torture him. And vice versa, considering he was the link to Madame Foster.

Sunlight faded in and out through the slants in an adjacent wall. This was the closest room to the surface and usually where her dark, disturbing thoughts led. She rocked back and forth in a rocking chair, shutting her eyes and imagining a world where imaginary friends and kids played carelessly in parks. If she simply let her imagination guide her…

The bright sunshine warmed her body and mind; she leaned against her beloved Herriman, velvety furry as always, and no one objected. In fact, in her vision, they might as well have been invisible for their impact. Green grass sparkled, morning dew fresh and slightly tangy in her nostrils. Trees swayed back and forth in a gentle breeze; they were full of verdant leaves and their barks were dark brown. A red, plastic Frisbee whizzed over her head and a small blob chased it energetically, charging up a small hill and hopping up to snatch it out of midair. He caught it, but the impact caused him to fall backwards. Slightly red in the face, he flung it back to Mac, grinning widely. Despite herself, she grinned as well.

"Miss Frances…"

No, she wished to remain in her world of make-believe. Yet even as she struggled vainly, the vividness faded into obscurity. Was the Frisbee red or green? What color were the leaves? The details trickled away like water in cupped hands. The stronger she strived, the faster they disappeared. Like everything good, it was gone before she grabbed it.

"Frankie, dearie, it's us."

A second voice clamored for her attention, but she wouldn't succumb. This time, soft fur ran across her cheeks and, unable to stop herself, she opened her eyes. Herriman smiled weakly and beside him, Madame Foster leaned on her cane and fixed her granddaughter a shrewd look as if to say, "What, you'll stop daydreaming for him but not for me?"

A tacit agreement passed between creator and creation; Herriman hopped swiftly, shutting the door. Once finished, he distanced himself on the room's far side. Madame Foster frowned, saying nothing. Both Frankie and she knew he disliked public displays of affection, regardless of who the public was. Besides, from his vantage point, he could observe them carefully and comment later. He preferred to scrutinize now and decide later.

Silence cloaked the room and she stood, irresolute. Wordlessly, she indicated Herriman join her, but he shook his head. She knew she'd flown off the handle, but couldn't he at least back her up?

Perhaps he caught the longing in her eyes, because he shifted slowly closer, yet stopped when his creator's eyes caught him. Helpless, he gazed at her longingly and shrugged. She wondered what she'd communicated to halt him mid-step. Whatever it was, he now guiltily dropped his eyes and stared blankly at the dull, bare concrete that stretched until the throw rug. Sometimes, she wished she understood firsthand what it was like to have an imaginary friend and thus, comprehended their own bizarre bond. But in the years before her mother's death and then her subsequent arrival here, she'd been too frightened to imagine one. Then, after Herriman, she hadn't wanted one badly enough to create it.

"Frankie, if we jumped every time we heard a death threat, we'd have hit the ceiling by now," her grandmother murmured, shaking her head sadly. "We've been pelted with rabbits' feet, rotten meat, and everything else you could think of before we went underground. That was, unfortunately, the best of DIE's treatment. Since Berry took charge, the dead meat became dead bodies….and not all rabbits, either."

Swallowing hard, the redhead stared fixedly at Herriman, determined not to meet her gaze. She shuddered, imagining what it must have been like to walk on the street only to be assaulted by _that_. No wonder he hadn't reacted more strongly. Still, the thought of DIE flinging rabbit carcasses boiled her blood and she finally tore her gaze away to struggle against an outburst. A well of emotion wormed within and she longed to scream like a child, "this isn't fair!" She glanced down at the threadbare rug.

"I know this is hard for you to hear, but get over it!" the old lady snapped, cracking her cane threateningly an inch away from Frankie's foot. Surprised, she yelped and folded her legs underneath herself. The thinnest trace of a smile flitted across Herriman's face and she glared back.

"He's not dead, he's not injured, nothing happened! So some stupid kid threw a rabbit's foot at Mac and threatened him. So _what_? I know you love him, but worry about him when he actually needs your concern!" she continued, every sentence punctuated by a cane slamming to the floor. The metal tip clattered, resounding in the small room. Frankie sighed, glancing once more at him. He looked like he wanted to smile, but his composure never changed.

Frankie knew she had a point, but she couldn't help but worry. Madame Foster was the iron fist who planned to pry open DIE's secrets while Frankie mothered imaginary friends and creators. Fretting had become second nature and when it came to Herriman, that was where she worried the most. Still, as long as he was all right, technically she had nothing to worry about. She didn't know who the girl was; much less assume her threat to be anything more than idle.

"Now that _that's _cleared up, I have to see if Mac remembers anything else. I'll leave you two alone," she said, casting a baleful eye before stepping outside and shutting the door.

They listened to her retreating footsteps and it wasn't until they completely died that he hopped closer. Frankie sighed, striding to the slits and holding her hand up to the erratic beams. Dust motes danced, parading within the confines. Squirrels chattered noncommittally to each other and she shut her eyes again, wondering what it would be like to live as a squirrel. Squirrels never had to hide their mates or protect them constantly. They collected nuts, played, slept, and their happiness was unmarred by paranoia or terror.

Living in terror certainly changed a person and definitely not for the better. What had this life brought her but misery followed by brief periods of happiness? No. It had also brought her him and that alone made it worth living. She just wished she could prioritize like her grandmother and not let her emotions sway her to the point where she nearly revealed them because the thought of him suffering drove her mad. Slamming her hands on the sill beneath the slants, she exhaled sharply. A fool, that's what she was. A fool in love with public enemy number two.

Warm arms encircled her waist and she smiled, recognizing them instantly. She leaned back into Herriman's chest and his whiskers tickled the top of her head. Madame Foster was right- he still lived and breathed perfectly fine. No stupid DIE supporters had attacked him and whoever that girl was, she was inconsequential. It was hard to think of someone harming him, anyway, with his arms around her and his heartbeat next to her ear. She permitted herself to relax and let the placidity take her away.

* * *

Dissenters protested her decisions, but silenced themselves under fear of persecution. Since she stole the pathetic beginnings of DIE away from a stupid human who hadn't recognized the correct end of a pistol, she murdered anyone who objected. She **was **the founder of DIE (considering its true founder lay six feet beneath the ground in the woods), the one who broadcasted it and transformed it into the empire it was today. Sure, it was small now, but it would blossom into statewide, then national. She waited with baited breath.

Yet why not double her power and summon forth a mate? Together, they would conquer the infidels, bring Eleanor Foster and her stupid rabbit into her grasp, and crush them. Their blood would flood the soil and she'd carelessly clean his fur so when she went out and displayed it prominently, no troublesome spots remained. It would be soft and sweet, like their death at her hands.

Then, afterwards, she would have no rivals to power, no one to threaten her. She would be free to love once more…and conquer another.

She drummed her fingers on the desk and thought once more of the creature who escaped her. Snapping her fingers, she called one of her many aides towards her and formulated a plan to bring him back into her clutches.

* * *

Bloo cringed, obstinately refusing bandages. He tried to assert his "perfect health", but immediately fell over onto a rather serious gash. Blood and dirt mingled and he screamed, no longer able to pretend. He glanced up at his creator and feebly offered him his blobby arm. Mac swiftly pulled him up and slapped on gauze strips and whatever else he could manage ere Bloo protested. Soon, the imaginary blob was awash in bandages and strips. He glared, but even he had to admit when he needed help. He just hated feeling like a mummy. 

The living room surrounded them and Mac was grateful the other imaginary friends had found other places to play. He leaned an arm over the side of the sofa and faced him; one of his legs was curled under the other. Bloo moaned, eyes downcast. He hadn't lived years with his creator to be completely oblivious to 'lecture mode'. Really, the way he ached, it ought to be criminal to even bring it up. Lamentably, Mac would not be deterred. Bloo leaned his head against a cushion and clenched his eyes shut. Sleep denied him too.

"I _told _you not to go out and what do you do? You go out and get hurt. You could have been _killed_," he snapped, glaring daggers. Bloo opened one eye experimentally. Mac looked pretty agitated. Maybe it was best to sit this one out.

"Yeah, but I wasn't," he replied, missing the point. He stretched out for the remote, but Mac stood up swiftly and put it atop the highest shelf where Bloo couldn't reach without changing form. Frowning, he folded his arms across his chest and glowered.

"You forgot your transformer and got captured. What if you exposed Foster's and everyone here? What if you got us all killed?" _I can't afford to lose you_ were the words behind his speech. _And Foster's can't afford to have you or anyone reveal anything._

"Uh, but I'm fine. See, Mac?" he said, raising his arms. However, he only moved them a few inches before he stopped, in too much pain to continue. Mac stood, torn between rushing to his side or letting him see for himself how 'fine' he really was. He settled for glancing sternly.

"You could be killed next time," he said coldly, unable to stop the shudder coursing through him. "And…I love you too much to let you out again."

Pacing, fists at his thighs, he gathered his thoughts before speaking again. How could he communicate his urgency? He could forbid him to leave, but (a), he wouldn't listen and (b), what good would it do? Whatever he told him to do, he generally did the opposite. Pain flickered in his eyes and he shut them, slamming his fist against the brick wall. It stung, throbbed, and strengthened his determination. Bloo couldn't leave again, not on his own.

Bloo stared blankly and rose. He wasn't sure whether he was supposed to comfort him or obey his hunger pangs regarding the chip bag he'd been denied after his abduction. He shuffled towards the open doorway between the living room and the kitchen when Mac, eyes still shut, stood in the doorway. He flung out his arms and his hand smacked into something plastic. The highest shelf…

The TV turned on, jolting both creator and creation from their thoughts. Bloo spun around to peer curiously at the reporter, a woman with bright blonde hair and an obnoxious smile. Spunky Erin Peterson, they called her. She grated their nerves, especially since she delivered DIE's news happily. It sickened them.

"And today, the DIE leader announced that she is on the lookout for a small, blue imaginary blob. All militants assigned to locate Mr. Herriman and Eleanor Foster will detain to locate this creature and the reward is ten thousand dollars alive. Civilians are advised to use any methods necessarily to knock it out and then bring it to their local squadron. Note- it is wanted alive. Dead, the person will not collect the reward. That is all."

Mac and Bloo stared blankly at each other as the reporter prattled on. Her words faded past and Mac fell to his knees. This was bad…worse than he could ever imagine. Bloo's mouth fell open and he stumbled backwards into Mac's arms.

Barely audible, Bloo murmured, "Oh, shit."

* * *


	7. Significance

Disclaimer: Not mine. No.

Chapter Seven: Significance

Wind rattled the denizens, but beneath layers of earth, insects, and plants, the only noticeable chill came from omnipresent conditions, hardly a situation to query over. Mac perched uncomfortably on the couch and glanced at anywhere but Madame Foster as he retold the previous events. Bloo remained oddly silent, eyes drawn to the television set and the doom it foretold. Whenever Mac faltered, he'd shift, glance at him intently, and then eye the carpet. What bizarre thoughts unfolded in his little head, he kept them to himself.

Madame Foster, too, silenced herself. At certain points, such as the girl's description, she opened her mouth as if to speak and then swiftly shut it. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, eyeing the room solicitously, but no phantoms leapt out. In fact, no imaginary friends or humans ventured near the room whilst Mac 'regaled' her with this afternoon's events. His voice pierced the relative silence, otherwise unmarred by Bloo's and Madame Foster's breathing.

When he finally finished, she held up a hand and then placed her chin on her fist reflectively. Shutting her green eyes, she leaned back in the chair and sat like this for a good twenty minutes, pensive. Bloo leaned forward, eager and anxious at once, but Mac slid back to the cushions. He had the impression whatever she wished to impart would not please them in the slightest and, apparently, Bloo shared that notion. Even if he hadn't spoken it aloud, Mac hadn't spent ten years with his imaginary friend and lived oblivious to his habits. He _had _created him, after all.

_Maybe she's waiting for me to talk_, Mac thought when the silence hovered oppressively over their heads. Self conscious, he cleared his throat and instantly, their eyes shot towards him. The sudden shift in attention unsettled him temporarily and he forced himself to regain his bearings.

"You don't think that girl was serious, do you?" he murmured, hoisting Bloo off the cushions and depositing him on his lap. Bloo glanced up, eyes glassy and unfocused. Mac shuddered innately and turned his head to peer at her.

"I know an imaginary friend who wouldn't think twice about harming my Funny Bunny…" she whispered, but the comment was more to herself than him. "She'd find it amusing."

Stomach churning, he gulped and immediately clutched him tighter. Bloo acted for all the world like a stuffed animal, never commenting when he held him too hard or squeezed breath out. The news just kept improving, didn't it? Next she'd tell him that girl was the head of DIE or something and she was the one who issued the command to steal him. A shiver raced down his spine imagining it.

"It's not like Bloo's in any _real _danger, is he? I mean, more than usual…" his voice tapered off at her expression. Madame Foster rose solemnly, glancing at Bloo as if looking at a terminally ill patient about to die. This time, both boy and blob shuddered and Bloo spun around to hug him about the middle.

"If I were you," she remarked seriously, "I would be very careful where and where I let him roam. And I wouldn't let him out of my sight."

* * *

Madame Foster had experienced and seen a great many things in her life. She'd married, watched her children grow, and saw her granddaughter's birth. She'd lived in a time when being aboveground didn't mean the difference between life and death. She'd existed in a world where walking side by side with Herriman wouldn't get both of them killed. She'd enjoyed freedom such as she feared Frankie, Mac, Bloo, and everyone else below would never share. This, more than anything else, made her feel so terribly, horribly old.

Had it really been thirty years since Berry seized control of DIE and turned the world into this? What had turned that imaginary friend against them in the first place? She remembered their first and only meeting, of course, but it explained nothing regarding her past. However, her future it detailed perfectly.

* * *

_Snowflakes descended upon the sleepy 1123 Wilson Way. Though it was past nine o'clock, many residents enjoyed a late slumber. The only creatures up and about were Mr. Herriman, who would have only slept late if he'd been drugged or assaulted beforehand, and Madame Foster. They sat in the parlor and watched the snow tumble gently down into a mounting bank. White covered the edges of the window and blanketed the grass and nearby mailbox. A roaring fire warmed them gently and, were it not for the strange figure limping by; they would have been perfectly content to remain there for a great while._

_Haphazard pink pigtails lay on her neon sports jacket, inadequate for the weather conditions. Madame Foster cleared away condensation on the glass to peer at her gaunt face and figure. She wore a pair of tight pink pants that were none too thick and pink winter boots. Though it was difficult to tell because of the frostbite, they conjectured her skin too was the same unnatural shade of pink. Mr. Herriman sat up straight to scrutinize her closer. An imaginary friend in need? _

_Unperceivable to them, bags lined the girl's eyes and her stomach growled angrily. Unbeknownst to them, she hadn't eaten a good meal in two weeks, not since her creator died. She'd curled up in the alley and waited for sleep to claim her- sleep that never came. Nightmares reigned supreme, reminding her of her hatred for Virginia and yet, her undying love. She hated her for leaving her…and wanted her back badly. Without her, everything fell apart. No one wanted her and no one cared. _

_Yet had anyone cared to begin with? Had Virginia only played with her emotions? Had she planned when she was going to leave her and do it right after they were the closest? Was that all other imaginary friends and humans did- work someone and then tear their beloved away? She couldn't stand the lot of them. They were pathetic, weak creatures. She stumbled, boots catching on a rock, and collapsed facefirst. She was weak too._

_Immediately, Herriman and Madame Foster strode and hopped out the door to tug her inside into the warmth. In the silent house, their steps echoed. A coat, boots, scarf, and mittens sat by the door for such an occasion. After all, you never knew when someone needed a helping hand. _

_They never questioned their motives; a creature was hurt and or sick and needed help. Foster's doctrine dictated they tend to her and besides, they'd never seen a reason not to before. Most imaginary friends were kind at heart and, after suffering a tragedy, desired tender loving care. They were like children themselves, waiting for affection and concern. In their minds, she should be no different. _

_Snow caked onto Mr. Herriman's paws and he shivered, rubbing his arms. He'd go anywhere his creator demanded; he was forever loyal to her, but that didn't mean he was always comfortable with it. Walking around in bare paws on the snow was like a human walking on ice without shoes or socks. Perhaps more so, because his paws were rather sensitive to temperature changes and this howling, freezing conditions induced shivers. _

_Madame Foster knelt by the girl and checked her pulse. She offered him a weak smile to remind him they wouldn't be out here long, so he shouldn't worry about frozen paws. She nodded at him and he gently hefted the girl into his arms and, hopping carefully, back into the house. Her head lolled back and forth, but otherwise, she gave no sign of consciousness._

_Tenderly, he lay down on the couch and then, gathering a blanket, wrapped her and propped her head up. She coughed, turning her head back and forth, and Madame Foster vanished to retrieve a glass of water. Herriman sat on the armchair and watched the girl struggle to return to consciousness. Sickly coughs wracked her frame and after a particularly unpleasant one, her eyelids fluttered open. _

_If he'd been expecting a thank you, any expression of gratitude, he was sorely mistaken. Fury contorted her countenance and she snarled, balling her fists. Utter hatred burned in her eyes. He'd never seen a creature less grateful in his life and was about to open his mouth to chastise her, when she snapped. _

"_Who the hell do you think you are?" she snapped. "Who gave you the right to touch me?"_

"_I beg your pardon, but you collapsed in the snow. This is no way to properly thank someone who has perhaps saved your **life**. Were you to remain in those frigid conditions any longer, you would have doubtlessly perished," he retorted coldly. Her nostrils flared and she clawed at the blanket, but he'd wrapped it too tightly around her to easily escape. Like a child having a temper tantrum, she kicked and punched at it._

_Madame Foster chose this moment to enter, tray containing water and a few nourishments in her hands. Once spotting the girl was awake, she smiled softly at her and laid it on a nearby table. She glanced at Herriman, whose expression was mounting dislike. However, since he seldom got along with many creatures, she disregarded it and the cold fury surging through their link._

"_How are you feeling, dearie?" she said gently, placing a hand on her forehead to take her temperature. She slapped it away and Herriman started, eyes narrowed distastefully. She shook her head at him to prevent him from physically hoisting the girl out on the streets again. Yes, she was fully aware of how protective he was over her, but sometimes that protection wasn't merited, regardless of the warning signals he sent her repeatedly._

"_I don't need your false sympathy," she snarled. "You're weak, both of you. Weak, pathetic creatures who subsist on charity. I won't be like you."_

_Madame Foster and Mr. Herriman blinked, glancing at each other. They weren't quite sure how to respond. He recovered first, bristling. First the insult to his creator and now this? She ought to be out on the streets indeed. She hardly deserved their compassion, not if she was going to abuse it._

"_I saw no one else offering to help you," he retorted frigidly. "This is Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends and we take in imaginary friends in need, give them a new home in the hopes they'll be adopted-"_

_Those, it turns out, were quite possibly the worst combination of words he could have uttered. She ripped the blanket off, growling ferociously, and, though she quaked on her feet, she managed to hold herself like she were the strongest of the three. Her chest swelled indignantly and her fists balled tightly enough for her nails to draw blood. They dug into her palm, but she grinned at the pain. Pain was suffering and suffering was life. They couldn't understand; it was beyond their puny brains._

"_I will never serve under a human again. They will bowto me and give me allegiance. And you two, you will be heads on my mantelpiece. You will remind the public that there is no such thing as charity and good will because all humans are liars in the end. They only live to please themselves and leave you._

"_And **you**, rabbit, I will have your foot as a good luck chair, your head on a pike, and your pelt as my belt. You were too weak to realize that your human can be easily overthrown- you're her bitch. You disgust me. _

"_You will rue the day you rescued me."_

* * *

Sadly enough, she did. Who knew such bad tidings could come from a good deed? Who knew an imaginary friend could raise an empire and bend people to her will on spite alone? Who knew she could turn the world into a waking nightmare?

Yet even though she reigned terror upon the world, she herself harbored a dangerous secret, one which kill her were anyone to find out. She'd managed to rule for decades when her rule was precarious at best. How had she survived this long without anyone discovering she was actually an imaginary friend? Moreover, how had she acquired a transformer? Only Foster's friends received them and hers clearly enabled her to do more than to transform into that one form since she'd had it before.

It hadn't aged, either. Was it her true human guise or one projected by the transformer? It couldn't be the one she presented to DIE- they'd recognize it immediately. The more she thought about it, the more she realized that though she ruled over them, her grip was tenuous at best. Yet without sufficient backup, how could the situations reverse?

Sighing heavily, she rested her head on her dresser. It was times like these she wished something would give and let her take the advantage back. But until that happened, they were thoroughly stuck.

* * *


	8. Reminiscing

Author's Note/Disclaimer: Not mine. And in case you were wondering about the two chapter posts in one day, think of it as a little present to compensate for my not writing for a little while.  


Chapter Eight: Reminiscing

Berry lay her chin atop her fist and watched the snow tumble lazily past her window. Her desk faced the window during the winter to remind herself how she'd gotten here in the first place. Soldiers' guns fired at random and assassinated designated targets, oftentimes in the shapes of Mr. Herriman and Madame Foster. Her personal favorites were the ones that screamed and bled after being shot. Of course, they also begged for mercy, another thing they'd never get. They could grovel for years and she'd still shoot them coolly in the head.

Fingers on her other hand groped through an open drawer and unbidden, drew out a picture. Old, tattered, and color fading; one would wonder why someone of her stature and position would cling to an obviously sentimental piece. After all, surely she'd dispose of it by now. Yet as the years went by and the loss grew more acute instead of less, she found herself examining it frequently as though silently querying her might give her the answers she sought. Only a smiling, sickly girl gazed back up at her.

She swallowed hard, hating herself again. She remembered crushing her fingers through the girl's long, curly blonde hair and inhaling her sweet scent of magnolia and rose petals. Her stomach flip flopped, remembering more than she'd usually permit herself.

* * *

_Spring and the flowers blossomed lovely in the garden surrounding Virginia's mansion. A pale thin girl, hair loosely hanging down her back, knelt by a red rose bush. She twirled one idly between her bony fingers, but somehow managed to avoid pricking herself. Her pink skirt (she always did love pink) flowed to her ankles, clad in pink slippers. A lilac blouse hugged her shoulders but otherwise, blew back and forth in the breeze. Despite her appearance, the girl was actually thirteen, not eight as distracted friends of her parents might have guessed._

_Berry envied her, but she always had. For as long as she could remember, she longed to twirl those beautiful blonde tresses and recline against her. Okay, so maybe she wasn't jealous anymore. Maybe it'd transcended coveting into an emotion she'd rather not contend with at the moment. Besides, in her heart of hearts, she knew she didn't stand a chance. Why identify it when she was bound to be heartbroken?_

_Birds chirped, swooping down over Berry's head. She carefully wended her way through the flowers, plants, and ornaments. Virginia's family took no pride in their daughter whatsoever, but when it came to displaying their wealth, it was grotesque. Stone structures of fairies, nymphs, and pixies stood by Virginia's room, another insult to her creator. Virginia hated the fey; she loved dragons and yearned for their power. All she'd ever wanted, she told Berry, was to make her parents sorry they never paid attention to her and then fly far away from here. _

_"Hey, Vi," she murmured, fretting that she'd broken the silence her creator wanted. She constantly felt like she was interrupting something whenever she was invited to sit with her. Then again, perhaps it was because simply sitting in her presence was like accompanying royalty. Her heart soared and butterflies twittered in her stomach. Whenever she was around her, her mood lifted instantly and she only thought of making her happy. But that was why she'd created her, wasn't it? To make her happy? So these thoughts were nothing more than that, weren't they?_

_"Berry!" she cried joyously, shifting and indicating she rest on her lap. The color rushed to her imaginary friend's face and she gazed at her creator uncertainly, perplexed. However, Virginia continued to motion towards her and she curiously did as she was bidden. She'd never sat on her lap before…and her face turned another shade of pink. She could practically cook a meal on it._

_Her fingers stroked the side of her face and, completely taken aback, she stared blankly. She couldn't deny that the butterflies in her stomach were now bouncing off each other and a surge of joy made her giddy, but what was going on? Why did it seem like Virginia was coming onto her? And why did she like it so much? She craved it and basked in her fingers rolling over the top of her head, her cheek, her chin, and then down her body. She only wished she had a more pleasing form for her._

_"I love you," Virginia whispered, lifting her and brushing her lips against hers. Berry was so shocked, she forgot to breathe. The world blurred and her heart leapt rapturously. Everything melted away until it was just the two of them..._

_And with a loud "pop!", a rush of heat flushed her. Then, feeling like she was entering a scalding tub, bits of her flesh tore and extended into molten legs, arms, hands, a neck, a suitable, human-like head, torso, feet, and even anatomically correct body parts. Surprised, she toppled out of her lap and onto the ground, where the cool grass assailed her. God, her body was on fire. What on earth was going on?_

_Gradually, she cooled and opened her eyes. Fingers flexed experimentally and she tried to push against the ground with her blob arms only to discover she couldn't. Virginia gently enveloped her in her arms and carted her off to the bench. She grinned eagerly at her as she examined all her new appendages and ran her new fingers over her body. She was at a loss for words._

_"Do you like it, Berry-chan?" she murmured, caressing her cheek. Unlike her blob form, every sensation was poignant. Her heart raced in her chest. _

_"I imagined it just for you."_

_Overwhelmed, throat constricting, she flung her arms around her and shrieked. Virginia winced, wishing it hadn't been right in her ear. Nonetheless, she smiled good naturedly, ran her fingers through her vibrant pink hair, and kissed her cheek. Berry shivered pleasurably, but her smile faded. She saw the way her hand trembled; Virginia turned away to hide another wracking coughing fit. _

_"Why did you give this to me, Vi?" she whispered, watching horror struck as she gasped for breath. This had been happening more often of late and she'd lost a great deal of weight very quickly. Not to mention she rarely slept well and scarcely ate. However, Berry had always assumed it was a temporary thing and she'd recover. She had to. She was Virginia and she was her creator. Humans held all the answers. After all, they were mighty enough to create them. If she was sick, they could fix her like that. She'd never leave her._

_"Imaginary friends won't be protected by humans forever and you…you need to be able to look out for yourself. I'm not always going to be around to support you," she murmured, clearing her throat and coughing up mucus. She shut her eyes, withdrew a tissue from her purse, and cleaned her hand (being certain to put use sanitized napkins first). _

_"Sure you are, Vi. Why wouldn't you be? You're not that sick. I'm sure we'll be together forever," Berry said, grinning. "And when I rule the world, you'll be at my side. We can tell people we're sisters."_

_Shaking her head, she kissed her gently on the lips. Berry attempted to kiss her back, but she withdrew. The saddest smile crossed her face, like one who is certain of their death but unsure how to break the news to a loved one. She kissed her cheek, rose ungainly to her feet, and the two reentered the house. She never did respond to her comments about the future, no matter how much Berry pressed her. _

* * *

_Machines whirled and beeped, but Berry hardly took any notice. Heart pounding in her ears, she gritted her teeth and released a low hiss. In the oversize hospital bed, her creator resembled a porcelain figure, chalky white and on display. Only the equipment informed her she lived at all. Otherwise, she might have been merely a rich person's plaything. Then again, her whole life, that was all she'd been. Her parents hadn't wanted her; the only creature in the world that loved her unconditionally and yearned for her company was her imaginary friend._

_Unfortunately, the same held true for Berry. Virginia's parents tolerated Vi because she was their offspring and Berry because she came from her imagination. If she weren't physically a part of their daughter, they would have kicked her to the curb long ago. Already, they discussed in loud voices how they would dispose Berry like rubbish and let whoever the hell wanted her lay claim to her. They seemed to be of the impression she was a plastic novelty toy that held no worth. Then again, they'd never considered Virginia terribly important, but without her, Berry had no one and nowhere else to turn._

_But this wasn't what really irritated her. She'd promised them eternity, even if she'd never said it. They were supposed to rule together, damn it! She was supposed to be her beloved, forever and ever. When Virginia breathed her last breath, it was supposed to be because Berry was dying too. Not this. Never like this._

_"This wasn't supposed to happen, damn it!" she screamed, whirling on her creator. "You're not supposed to leave me! We were supposed to be together forever!"_

_Virginia smiled weakly, turning her head. She indicated Berry join her on the bed, but, furious, she refused to step another foot closer. The door remained open so that everyone was privy to this. Virginia sighed- Berry always did enjoy making a scene when she thought the situation merited it. That was one of the things she was going to miss about her._

_"You knew about this! You knew you were going to leave me and you did it anyway! You gave me a human form and let me fall in love with you so you could destroy me! I HATE YOU!"_

_Very softly, as though it pained her to speak, she whispered, "You're right, Ber. I knew I was going to leave you. I knew I was sick and didn't tell you. Can you begrudge me? I wanted you to be happy and not suffer. I wanted you to be strong and healthy because I could never enjoy a full life."_

_"Liar! You're human! You can heal yourself! You just want to hurt me!" she screamed. "Humans can do everything- imagine yourself better!"_

_Smiling softly, energy leaving her, "You always were one to twist words, weren't you? I love you, Berry. Can you twist that? Can you tell me that I wouldn't have died to make you happy?_

_"And now, I have to ask you to do one thing for me. If you love me, please leave the room."_

_"Fuck you. I don't want to see you again anyway," she snapped, whirling on her heel and exiting._

_"You won't."_

_Ten minutes later, Berry felt her die. It was like her still beating heart was being ripped out of her chest, trampled on, and then, she was used a test dummy to explosives. She'd never wanted death more in her life._

* * *

"And now look at me," she crooned, spreading her arms wide. "I rule an empire."

Yet how was she going to combat death if the only creatures she knew died and the only one she'd ever given her heart, soul, and mind to had abandoned her? At least she knew she wasn't going to die of natural causes- imaginary friends had to be immortal. Nonetheless, it wouldn't hurt to have an heir. Once more, Bloo flitted across her mind. Surely she could procure a child from him? It didn't seem like it'd be too hard.

She'd beat him down and then, DIE would never die. Even if she never killed Herriman, her children would. Then they'd rue the day they tangled with her. Her…and Bloo. She grinned evilly. With him by her side, after she separated him from Mac, there'd be no stopping them.

Ah, yes, Mac, the fly in her ointment. How to disentangle Bloo from his inferior half, she wondered. Would Bloo protest if she killed him? Well, she supposed she'd discover when the creature was actually within her clutches. For now, she had to figure out how to approach this. After all, Bloo wasn't a typical Imaginary...


	9. Sunset

Author's Note/Disclaimer: I think I lost a few people after the debacle recently. Feh, forget them. They're not worth anything if they stopped reading because I defended my friends.

At any rate, Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends belongs to Craig McCracken and Cartoon Network. DIE and Virginia belong to me.

Chapter Nine: Sunset

Twilight, the time when creatures' activities dwindled down and people headed home. However, in any other world, returning home might be less of an ordeal than here. At sundown sharp, Berry's troops marched outside DIE headquarters and stationed themselves anywhere she thought Foster's might have an entrance. Fortunately, her knowledge proved faulty, but it made any spies' progress through the town to procure nourishments cumbersome at best.

A few garrisoned outside a local convenience store twiddled their transformers idly but were chary not to effect a transformation themselves. Like Foster's imaginaries, they had belts to change their guises and, like Foster's belts, contained tracking devices. However, these belts also had a shocking device- if the imaginary in question drifted too far from assigned stations or decided to go for a jaunt in a bar, he'd be electrocuted. Nothing like a little shock therapy to ensure fealty and obeisance.

One such soldier shrugged, glancing in the direction of HQ, and then inclined his head towards the conversation. In the corner, twiddling his own transformer knob, stood a dirty blonde haired teenager with rather thin, sharp fingers that curved like claws. His face wore an incredibly hard look and his blue eyes were like steel, cold and stoic. Unlike the others, he offered nothing to the conversation, but silently recorded everything. He had a mind like a trap and the cunning to undermine them all, if given the chance.

"I heard her singing in the shower the other day," one said offhandedly and it took no amount of brainwork on anyone's part to figure out who he was alluding to. Shuffling a cigarette between their freezing hands (both gloves and cigarettes were forbidden, since one was a drug and the other something that prevented pain), they casually drew a long drag and then passed it on. Bendy rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, singing to some girl named Virginia," a female piped up, face in the shadows and lit up only by the fire at the end of the narcotic. "Saying she loved her and she didn't have the right to leave her."

Bendy's eyes widened and he cocked his head, inclining it further without sticking out of the alley. Well, wasn't _this _interesting? Truthfully, he'd always suspected Berry wasn't entirely sane, but this certainly proved his theory. Who on earth was Virginia, anyway? She obviously meant a great deal to her at one point, but in order to gain her confidence and have her expose such an Achilles' heel was impossible at the moment. Maybe she'd reveal herself more as time went on.

"You know, I'm starting to think maybe _we'd _make better rulers of DIE," the third murmured. "I know the person who tried to head DIE before he disappeared and he wasn't as easy on imaginaries as she is. Sometimes I wonder if she _is _an imaginary. She has that belt…"

Bendy frowned, twiddling his own nervously. The last one wasn't an imaginary and therefore, a possible threat. At the moment, he had no weapons and therefore, only his one body to defend himself. These imaginaries were clearly traitors and would join his side in a heartbeat. He'd best keep his position.

"You know, if she _is _one, we ought to kill her. I know I'm not taking any shit from an imaginary and she's put me, I mean, us, through the ringer. Why the hell should we listen to some little fucker who is just a bad idea?"

The other grunts mumbled assertively and, given new strength, the pariah continued. He stood atop a rather rotten looking wooden crate and then, spreading his arms wide (he whacked the side of a building and Bendy snickered into his hands), proceeded to speak from his bully pulpit. He cupped his hands to direct more soldiers their way and Bendy rolled his eyes once more. What a fool. Someone was bound to be loyal here and would put a dozen bullets in his corpse, then alert her to the mutiny.

"Kill her!" he chanted and, to Bendy's shock, a group of five soldiers joined. Before long, they were screaming it to the high heavens and he slipped away, wondering if he ought to alert her or wait for them to make prats of themselves. Maybe he'd luck out and they'd get drunk and shoot themselves. _That _would make her happy and he'd get a dark chuckle out of it.

Humans really were stupid, though. Look at his own creator who had abandoned him because he couldn't deal with his deeds. He'd created him to do his dirty tasks and then couldn't handle him? What a little wimp. He'd deserved to be shot in the back by DIE soldiers. The look on his face had been priceless- finally, he understood the sting of the betrayal Bendy felt every day. Fool.

Sticking to the alcoves and alleyways, he arrived just as Berry contemplated her own plans for the evening.

* * *

Though most transformer belts had only two forms- human and their proper, imaginary forms, Berry had two imaginaries and two humans. She never used the second imaginary form but had always kept it in storage just in case. Now, idly twiddling her own belt, she wondered if it might come in handy. After all, Foster's knew what one guise looked like, but not the other. Maybe she could infiltrate it, steal Bloo away, and then kill Herriman and Madame Foster in their sleep. Three birds with one stone.

Of course, the fact remained that she had no idea where Foster's was located, but that could be remedied. If she waited outside long enough, surely a spy, imaginary in hiding, or creator would wander out and then, she'd trap them.

…

Mr. Herriman rested his head against the chilly metal doorframe and glanced occasionally into the small hole inserted at eye level. Every once in a while, he ended up with look out duty, which usually entailed a couple boring hours of watching out for any new imaginary friends in need of a place to crash. At least, that was the positive idea behind it. The negative usually wasn't considered until it became a possibility (of DIE soldiers knocking brashly on their front door).

Today, Frankie sat, curled up in a chair off to the right side. She'd insisted on joining him and wouldn't take no for an answer. Despite the fact look out duty was boring (as she herself knew), she'd perched herself on the only folding chair in the immediate vicinity and then obstinately refused to move. Beneath the façade of assuring him company, he had the keen notion she was really looking out for the imaginary who had threatened him. Her fist balled into her palm gave it away as well as her narrowed eyes and intimidating countenance. The famous Foster temper brewed beneath the quick smile she offered him.

"Frankie," he murmured, exasperated, "what makes you think that she would arrive here of all locations and then demand our help? It makes little sense."

"She's an imaginary friend, isn't she?" she snapped, wrapping her arms around her legs. "She'll come."

Sighing, he removed a glove to stroke her face with his paw. Normally, such an act would calm her, but snow crunching outside combined with her suppressed fury only caused her to narrow her eyes to slits and slap his paw away. She didn't like being patronized and, in her mind, offering false assurance was nothing less. The girl _would _come and she _would _have her vengeance for threatening him. No amount of caresses and sweet nothings would stop her.

A swift knock on the door diverted his attention and she mouthed at his back, "you see?" Of course, he couldn't at the moment, but the point was still valid. Nonetheless, until she verified this was who her target was, she might as well sit back. If she leaned over the armrest, she just barely distinguished tufts of orange hair spurting out over a blobby, grotesque head and two left feet (literally). Far be it for her to critique imaginary friends' appearances, but there was something off about this one.

Meanwhile, unseen by either Herriman or Frankie, a small, blue, imaginary blob crept up the stairs and then halted, arm on the banister. As the disguised Herriman answered the door, an ominous feeling churned his stomach. Somehow, he knew instantaneously no one they ought to consort with lay beyond that door. He glanced at Frankie, who was frowning like he. She sensed it too.

In his human form, grey and white hair covered his head and then ended curtly at his neck. He was of indeterminate age, but he looked to be at least fifty. A handsome, sleek black tuxedo hung sharply about his chest and black trousers were (naturally) folded up to meet polished black dress shoes. Every inch of his human form was immaculate, much like his normal guise. Still, the slight crouch and his awkwardly upright legs betrayed the fact he wasn't normally a human. That and his nose was pinker than usual, rather like a rabbit's.

He stood, either in rabbit form or human, at the same height as Frankie, but Bloo supposed his human form had its advantages. At the moment, he preferred to keep down his chips and not ponder what those were. Still, the smile that arose whenever he transformed was missing from her face. Both she and Bloo were preoccupied with determining what exactly was out of place with this imaginary.

"May I help you?" he said curtly, chary not to reveal who he worked or what exactly he did. Experience taught him mentioning Foster's and what they stood for was a dangerous notion. Besides, he thought he'd heard this voice before, but he couldn't put a paw on where. Some time in the past, had he encountered her? And there was that belt, a green instead of the navy blue the imaginaries from Foster's wore.

"_You_," the girl growled, orange blobby arms contorting into fists. Every cell in her body exploded into anger. Though she hadn't recognized the form, the voice she would anywhere. Visions of a dying rabbit flitted through her head.

"I beg your pardon?" Herriman responded politely, though Frankie vacated her chair to glower at the girl from behind the door. She too, had balled fists and wasn't afraid to use them. Besides, anyone who distinguished him by his voice had to be either someone here who'd known him for years, Berry herself, or an imaginary friend trained by her. She wasn't taking any chances.

"You filthy rabbit!" she screeched, launching herself at him. A switchblade flashed, but before she could use it, Frankie ripped her hands off him and then shoved her into the alley. Taken aback, he watched as she proceeded to slap the blade away and kick her hard in the stomach.

Berry clutched her sore stomach, but recovered quickly enough to slam her into the wall. She swung her fist to careen into her face, but the redhead ducked at the last split second and Berry hit solid brick. Momentarily dazed, Berry stood there dumbly as Frankie put her in a headlock and then rained no less than a dozen punches on her head and chest while the girl struggled madly. Howling in pain, Berry managed to free herself only to headbutt her in the stomach. Frankie once again slammed into the wall and groaned as it struck her back painfully.

"Miss Frances!" Herriman cried, panic stricken. "Miss Frances, stop!"

"_Never_," Frankie snarled and he had to duck behind the door because she flung her into it. Metal clanged and Berry shrieked, shuddering as her head connected with the steel. She twiddled a dial on her transformer, turned into a human, and then proceeded to wrap her hands around her throat. Disgruntled, Frankie stepped on both her feet, elbowed her in the throat, and karate chopped her in the back of the neck. The world spun in varying shades before Berry's eyes and Frankie smirked, kicking, punching, and lunging whenever applicable. She wasn't going to give her the chance to recover.

"Who the hell are you?" Berry rasped, spitting in her face. "And why the hell should you care what happens to that stupid fucking rabbit? He deserves to be dead.

"That's why I threw the rabbit foot at your little friend- as a reminder his days are numbered."

That last comment plunged her into a state of adrenaline driven, righteous fury and, so pissed she could barely see straight, she cuffed her in the back of the head, kicked her in the back, and then continued striking at random until she finally ended up punching her in the back of the head and sending her face first into the brick wall. Berry stumbled, attempting to right herself, when Frankie kneed her in the stomach once more and, like a sack of lead, she crumpled.

"Bitch," she spat, still fairly quaking in anger. She pivoted on her heel and, after a second thought, picked up the unconscious imaginary friend by the scuff of her collar. Blood trickled down the wounds she'd inflected, though Frankie herself was not without a few scratches and bruises. Still, she was conscious and the other creature passed out by her hands, so she considered herself the winner.

Meanwhile, completely nonplussed, Herriman stared blankly. He wasn't certain how to address what had just happened. In fact, he was having a bit of trouble making eye contact with her. Her lack of inhibition towards Berry and her sudden recklessness unnerved him. Swallowing hard, he glanced at the floor, the switchblade, and understood. It wasn't unprovoked in the slightest. That came as a somewhat relief.

"Frankie…" he murmured, eyeing her capriciously. "I think that was the head of DIE you just, er, disposed of."

Stunned, she dropped her onto the cold, unyielding icy asphalt. Her face smacked and, maliciously, she wondered if she'd heard a crack or merely imagined it. Still, if this was the head of DIE, then she'd probably bring reinforcements next time she arrived. She glanced at Herriman, who glanced determinedly back. Maybe those blows to the head would erase her recollection of how she got here in the first place (hopefully).

Then again, this wasn't the only entrance into Foster's and it definitely wasn't the most used. With any luck, she thought as she carted her off into a dumpster far away, she'd forget the entire exchange. But if worst came to worst, they could always shut that one down. It wasn't that big a deal...

Frankie leaned against the dumpster for a second and glanced at her hands. Were she as ruthless as Berry, she'd have killed her opponent. Instead, she lived to torture them and everyone else another day. But if she _had _killed her, could she have lived with herself afterwards? She doubted it.

Herriman was waiting for her at the door and hastily shut it after she entered. With any luck, that'd be the end of the excitement for the day.

* * *


	10. Past

Author's Note/Disclaimer: Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends does not belong to me.

And I managed to finish this even with two annoying people sitting behind me. Yay.

Chapter Ten: Past

_Terror gripped the youngster; he scrambled madly to his feet and bit back a howl. Eyes widened disbelievingly and his heart raced in his little chest. Beside him, his kid brother stared blankly, incomprehensibly. His imaginary friend snuggled up against his chest frightfully and whimpered, pressing his face into his warm pullover. If Terrence were a good older brother, he might have wrapped his arms around Mac and told him not to worry. That, regardless of the fact their mother was dying before their eyes, he would protect him. But he didn't. Because he was a terrified eleven year old and he wanted nothing to do with a creature that could get him killed._

_His feet kicked aside gravel, ice, and, in his rush to leave Mac and Bloo, he skidded. Blood covered the patch since this was the sickening place where his mother's head had hit. He swallowed bile, regained his wind, and sped away. This was the last time he saw either creator or creation._

* * *

Seductive and alluring, she represented everything impossible to attain. Money, power, and the cunning to drive creatures under her heel appealed greatly. Then again, Terrence spent his days scouring dumpsters for supper and huddling in alleyways or broken buildings since he lacked housing. It was a bum rap, but here, standing in DIE's lobby, he peered unabashedly at the opalescence. Could all this be his? Dare he dream it?

Golden orbs shone on the walls and water trickled in a fountain, close to the revolving glass doors, portraying an idea rising forth from a human's head. Or, rather, the imaginary shoved his way out of their mind and the water flowing freely was in fact the representation of their blood. In fact, it had a faint red taint and smelled distinctively leaden. When he inhaled, he nearly tasted it on his tongue. Well, that wasn't terribly twisted.

Marble, cold and impersonal covered the floor in tiles and as people strode purposefully by, their heels or dress shoes clacked. To his right lay a white marble counter, papers stacked neatly. A pale, clammy receptionist pounded on the keys as though someone held a gun to his head. A single bead of sweat trickled down his bare neck and met his stiffly starched black suit. Nonetheless, he never slowed or hesitated; pure mechanical functions, like an imaginary created for the sole purpose of typing memos.

The whole lobby, open and full of milling people, was almost obscenely large. A skylight opened up to the heavens and, overhead, snow clouds released their torrent on the city. Terrence, intrigued, studied it until a stiff hand wrapped about his lower arm jerked him away and towards the golden gilded elevators. Whoever this blonde haired woman with curly hair was, she certainly liked pushing her weight. Still, why everyone bowed respectfully and courteously, despite her disgusting odor, was beyond him.

Then again, he'd rescued her a mere fifteen minutes ago when she decided, upon scanning his features furiously, he was exactly who she was looking for. Clueless, he followed because, quite frankly, she petrified him. He'd never met anyone before he deemed criminally insane.

She leaned against the elevator's polished gold side and scrutinized every inch of him. Uncomfortable, he retreated into a corner and folded his arms across his chest. A scraggly red, plaid shirt hung over his scrawny frame. Her blue eyes trailed across its threadbare cuffs to the unraveling bottom. Smirking, she folded her arms across her own chest, attired in a pink suit, and carefully chose her next few words. After all, his information depended on how she treated him now.

"You are his brother, correct?" she inquired, clipped. Despite her forced diplomacy, she truly despised dealing with what she considered the dregs of humanity. At least when she lived on the streets, she maintained her dignity. This young man clearly cared nothing for etiquette and appearances.

"Huh?" he replied dumbly and she mentally slapped a hand to her forehead. Nothing she abhorred more than a moron replying in his colloquialisms instead of establishing English. What on earth happened to properly enunciating words and phrasing sentences without butchering verbs and pronunciation? What happened to sounding intelligent? No, cross that out- whatever happened to_ being _intelligent? Youth today resembled slack jawed yokels whose first language was "duh".

"You mean, 'I beg your pardon'?" she snapped, temper rising. "Good heavens, child, you are in the presence of a superior. Do you suppose you could string your two brain cells together and form an adequate response? I have heard wiser remarks out of the mouths of babes."

Dumbfounded, he peered at her as though properly seeing her for the first time. Unwilling to meet her eyes, he instead gazed at her waist and then the floor. He'd seen that belt around, but, not privy to the inner workings of DIE and Foster's, failed to figure its significance. Still, though Terrence might not be as smart as his younger brother, he wasn't entirely stupid. Those with belts skulked instead of walking freely like other humans. The belt represented subordination, not power. Yet why would someone as high up as she claimed to be don one?

"I'm, er, sorry," he mumbled, staring at his scuffed, second hand sneakers. The top used to be white, in a forgotten time, and now gray pervaded. The red sides were a mottled brown and bore many crime encrusted holes. Like its owner, these shoes had plainly seen better days. He shuffled them awkwardly.

"You had better be," she muttered threateningly, twirling her switchblade between her fingers idly. Though that tussle with Frankie had elected more bruises than anticipated, she'd been chary to carefully conceal her blade back into her pocket. It'd been her misfortune not to retrieve it during the fight, though now, she wasn't entirely certain she should have killed her in the first place. After all, she evidently cared deeply for Mr. Herriman- a prospect she might be able to use to her advantage. If she battered him, she might lure the girl out of hiding and thus, force Madame Foster's location out.

Forcing a smile, behaving as though he hadn't precariously dangled on her thin nerves, she crossed the small expanse and squeezed his shoulder. Terrence cringed, the smell and her very aura intimidating. He recoiled again, but bumped into the elevator's sides. She inhaled deeply, ignoring her own wretched state to sniff out his fear like a feral dog. Innately, he shuddered, finding her creepier and creepier as time progressed. What position could this psychotic woman possibly hold? Surely they'd bar her entrance into management or an important field.

The elevator doors slid smoothly open and he spurted onto the blue, synthetic rug. Only one office loomed ahead and, swallowing hard, he glanced about, desperate for another individual to claim it. When none did, he hung his head dejectedly and watched, out of the corner of his eye, as a scanner 'read' her palm. When she withdrew it, he bit back an audible gasp- her palm had no identification lines. Instead, deeply embedded was a scar- V and B 4 ever.

Perplexed, he stared until she, incensed, tugged him into her office. He gawked, too unsettled to take a seat, while she pulled up a file on her computer. Satisfied, she projected it onto a large screen by the entrance and he frowned, coming face to face with his brother's face for the first time in years. The picture might have been in black and white, but he still recognized it and the small bundle clutched tightly to his chest. His relief at seeing them alive was quickly dispelled, lamentably.

"All known living creators and their creators are on record in DIE's computers. When I searched his picture through the footage corner lights record, I came up with you as well. Since I'm aware you two are orphans, I thought you might as well be the source who might delve more information into the boy's habits and his possible location. Given the way he protected his imaginary friend during this conversation, I believe that finding him will lead to his friend," she said, pacing back and forth. She turned her head, disgusted with the innocent, loving look in the boy's eyes. His hands rested tightly on his jacket to protect his imaginary.

Realization dawned on him that she, or, at least her organization, bore the blame for his mother's death. Fists balled, stomach gnawing at him, he spat at her feet. Despite his fear and relative apathy towards Mac and Bloo, he refused obstinately to help anyone who had a part on his mother's demise. Yet she gazed at him coolly, anticipating his defiance. After all, if she had a rabbit's foot for every time everyone denied her information at first, then she would have enough to make a nice shag rug to complement her rabbit's head trophy to hang on the wall once she finally killed him.

"I don't know where they are and even if I did, I wouldn't tell you. You fucking killed my mother!" he roared, charging. She yawned, revealing her switchblade and thrusting it at a non vital location- his stomach. He stopped dead, crumpling to his knees. First pain, torture, and then, if he was exceedingly unlucky, death. But she would save that for last. Dead creatures were horrible company.

"I've killed a lot of people, _child_. I see no reason why your mother should be more significant than the next human. Now, I will ask you again- do you know where your brother and his imaginary friend are?" she snarled, switchblade gleaming ominously. His blood dripped off the edge.

"Fuck…you…" he rasped, clutching his stomach. "I don't know…and you're not getting anything else…

"You might as well kill me…"

He spat his blood onto her nice, clean brown carpet and she dug her nails into her palm. Honestly, she'd just had that cleaned. Did the boy possess any manners at all? If he had no information and nothing better to do than to muddy her perfectly good carpet, he ought to serve another purpose- target practice.

She pressed a red button her desk, summoned an aid, and in a minute, the only indication he'd been there at all were the rug's stains.

* * *

Blooregard Q. Kazoo perched himself once more on the couch's armchair and argued ardently with his creator, whose beady gaze might have deterred less unruly imaginary friends and humans. Truthfully, he had no idea what Mac was so worked up about. So Berry had a hit out on him? So what? So what if it was his fault? He'd find a better disguise and go out again to get his chips. It really wasn't that big a deal. The way Mac described it, the apocalypse had come.

Mac pivoted, too frustrated to speak. His chestnut eyes flashed warningly beneath his bangs; he furiously brushed any offending hair out of his eyes and behind his ear. Bloo smirked- even when he was pissed at him, he was still adorable. He contemplated pulling him into his arms when he stopped dead, finger pointed accusingly.

"You realize this is all your fault, don't you? If you hadn't wandered off without your belt, Berry wouldn't have been able to target you. Why do you have to be so foolhardy? Now she's going to have every single soldier and worker trained to recognize and abduct you. And I know you're not going to stay underground, either. You'll wander out and get yourself killed," Mac snapped, though he sounded more like he was talking to himself than actually chastising Bloo.

"Not if you rig my transformer to give me another form. C'mon, Mac, I'm sure it won't be _that _hard. And then-" he protested, but he never finished. Eyes blazing, he growled and prodded him in the chest.

"It's too dangerous, _period_. I don't want you wandering out there. You're not allowed aboveground until they stop searching for you," Mac said sternly, folding his arms across his chest and flopping onto the couch. Outraged, his imaginary friend gawked.

"_What_? You can't be serious! I'll die without air!" he cried, dramatically choking himself and toppling to the floor. Mac watched, nonplussed and not impressed. Bloo continued his act until he noticed his frown and the fact he hadn't moved an inch to aid him. Fury replaced his pleas and he shot to his feet in record speed.

"That isn't fair! You're a creator and they have _you _on file too! If they caught you, you'd be in as much trouble as me!" Bloo snapped, azure eyes shooting daggers.

"Have they ever announced on the news that they want me, and me specifically? Damn it, Bloo, she changed their entire routine just so they could capture you. _Obviously_, your capture means a lot more than mine. And _obviously,_ you're in much more danger than I am," he retorted, teeth gritted. Why couldn't his imaginary see it? He was doing this for his own good. He didn't want him hurt, especially not at their hands. He knew what they were capable of and he didn't want his precious Bloo to be subjected to it. Images of Bloo's head blowing apart thanks to gunfire temporarily choked his throat.

"Only if they figure out who I am, which they're not going to. C'mon, Mac, it's not like I'm your mother. They're not going to shoot me down while you watch helplessly," Bloo replied and understood about five seconds too late the impact. Mac leapt off the couch, darted to the wall, and pressed his forehead against it. He pounded his fist against the plaster repeatedly and, for several tense minutes, Bloo squirmed while his creator cursed under his breath.

Finally, he turned around swiftly and fixed him with such a heat filled, furious gaze, Bloo quailed. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Mac spoke first. His voice filled the little room like the anger filled his body. His fists trembled badly.

"You wanna go get yourself blown up? Go ahead. I don't care. I'm trying to protect you and all you can think about is yourself. I put my life on the line every time I go out because I still have you around and all you think about is your loss of freedom? What about _mine_? My whole life is different because you're my lover. I sacrificed everything to keep you by my side."

Every syllable hung in the air like a death sentence and Bloo glanced at the carpet. Mac's fists, already balled, tightened until the knuckles stood out prominently white. The veins pulsed in his hands and his heart thundered in his head.

"This is a shitty way to repay me, Bloo. Me _and _my mother, who died to ensure I could keep you.

"I'm going out for a walk. Don't follow."

Tugging on his coat, he zipped it up and exited before Bloo could say a word.

* * *


	11. Despondency and Resilience

Disclaimer: ...

You should know by now what I'm about to say and since most authors don't put this in each and every chapter, I'm forgoing it. So there.

Chapter Eleven: Despondency and Resilience

Mac's crisp breath hung out, clearly visible, but, thankfully, it was his only companion. Shoulders hunched, he drew his hoodie over his face to help hide his features. Oddly, it was black like DIE's uniforms. At the moment, he cared not. At least it drew attention away from him. If he looked like a DIE official, people would leave him alone, which was precisely what he desired. Nothing more than solitude and the wintry wind.

Alas, striding through the streets uninhibited proved fanciful. Yells rent the air, accompanied by the sound of fist pounding on flesh and, as customary, the innocent's wails. Careful to stick to the shadows, Mac gazed the streetlamps dubiously before crossing the street. Rumor had it certain corners were bugged and he really didn't want to be photographed (though he had the sensation he already had been and it had gotten someone into a heap load of trouble).

A group of both men and women huddled in front of a crouching, whimpering imaginary friend who shielded his many eyes. He struggled plaintively, clearly reaching out for the black boy restrained by three heavy set women. Whips cracked and tore into one of his eyeballs. The creature screamed, writhing in pain in the dirty snow. Blood streamed out of his wound. The mangled remnants couldn't remain either closed or open and so, fluttered madly.

A whip lashed across the creature's white midsection and as he curled up to shield his tender stomach, two more whips rained pain upon his eyes and back. Blood streamed down in possibly lethal levels, poured into his mouth, down his sides, and soiled the already stained snow. Though the boy was blind, he still heard his imaginary friend's screams and felt his pain through their bond and shrieked himself, kicking out stubbornly. The color had drained from his face.

"Worthless! You're both worthless!" the woman pressing the boy to her chest screeched to the clouded sky. It was impossible to discern any identifying features beneath her hoodie and black attire. Then again, the same held true for the others gathered around, including the two men trampling on the imaginary friend, ready to pass out. He sputtered indignantly and raised his stalk-like arms in protest, but they trod on them as well.

"You should never have lived! You're a stupid, blind kid with a pathetic imaginary friend who can't defend himself! You both deserve death!" a teenage girl snarled, kneeing the boy in the stomach. He cried out, but continued to fight. Behind his sunglasses, his unseeing eyes widened. So what if they were now beating up on him? It was his imaginary friend was important, not him.

Somewhere, a communicator rang shrilly and, disgruntled, the woman holding the teenager answered. One hand pressed him tightly to her while the other raised it up to her ear. She began to argue vehemently, but whoever was on the other side silenced her quickly. Trembling, she ordered the others to retreat and flung the boy into the snow beside his imaginary.

Mac waited until they vanished from sight before rushing over. He swallowed hard, aware the imaginary friend might die ere they reached Foster's. Hastily wiping his blood on his jeans, he glanced at the boy, who crawled away. Mac silently scolded himself- in other 'rescue' missions, he'd rushed over and introduced himself later. Clearly, this boy perceived him to be the enemy and in the silence, tensed, readying himself for a fight. Mac held up a hand, and then, remembering he couldn't see that, spoke quietly.

"Hi," he said cautiously, retreating lest he think he intended any future harm. "I'm Mac."

"Are you with _them_?" he snarled, voice laced with venom. "Stay away from Ivan."

"I'm sorry? Ivan? Oh, right. Your imaginary friend. No, I'm not going to hurt him," he said, smiling weakly and, once again, forgetting he couldn't see the gesture.

"I'm one of the good guys."

The boy spat bitterly, scrambling to cradle Ivan to his chest. A loathsome expression contorted his features and he swallowed hard. They tended to be antagonistic at the beginning, especially in situations like this. However, this creator's particular handicap made gaining his trust difficult. Not to mention he relied on his imaginary for more than just companionship…and if he died, then they were in a quagmire.

"Are you? Are there any good guys left?" he snapped, slowly rising to his feet. "Foster's is underground, hiding like cowards, and everyone is either imprisoned or dead. There's no one left."

Mac bit back rising impatience. Regardless of its location, Foster's had a very good reason why it remained belowground. After all, they possessed two of DIE's most wanted. Why should they reside where they faced certain death? To Mac, who had lived there almost his entire life, the motives were never questioned, merely accepted. To hear anyone else snap anything contrary shook him.

"We're _not _cowards," Mac growled, hunching his shoulders and forcing himself to take one deep, calming breath after another. He was here to help, not condemn. They were perplexed and ignorant. It wasn't the kid's fault he regarded them so obviously wrongly. If he'd lived this long on the streets, maybe he'd think like that. Then again, if he _had, _Bloo would have probably gotten them both killed by now.

"Look, I know you're not sold on them right now, but it's either go to Foster's or let them kill your imaginary friend while you stand helplessly," he pointed out, glancing worriedly at Ivan. His breathing labored, every twitch sent a spasm through his creator's fearful, tightened face. The boy clutched him tighter, heedless of any further injury he might incur.

He knelt in the snow and gazed at him earnestly. Softly, he added, "It's not like you really have a choice."

The boy held his chin stubbornly, but wheels churned in his head. If he remained on the streets, both would be killed. Though he disliked Foster's, he really had no choice. He hated both options, but at least in the other, Ivan could be healed and they'd be free (relatively) from DIE's attacks. Grimacing, he nodded weakly.

"I'm Stevie and, like I said, this is Ivan. Lead the way, I guess."

* * *

Pensive himself, Mac scarcely noticed which way he led the two. He'd never considered the possibility of Foster's having such a bad rap before. In his mind, it was solely sanctuary and, from the impression he garnered through others, they shared his opinion. Why wouldn't anyone fleeing DIE immediately, no thinking required, opt to enter Foster's? Sure, dwelling underground might not exactly rival clean and fresh air, but to him, it was home. 

Simply biding their time until they struck wasn't cowardly, was it? All good tacticians studied their enemy at length and then made a move. DIE outnumbered Foster's imaginary friends and humans too, didn't it? What was the point of making themselves a target when they stood no chance? Then again, nagging at the back of his mind was the fact Foster's had been living like this for decades. Maybe they _were _cowards…

Despite Ivan's obvious bulk, Stevie clasped him desperately. Mac observed the two, sighed, and his train of thought switched tracks. Why did DIE have to target creators who obviously needed their imaginary friends? Did they have any compassion at all? Couldn't they see that he wouldn't survive without Ivan? Or was murder a game to them? Ring around the rosy, pockets full of poesy, ashes, ashes, we all fall down.

* * *

Winter's ferocity imbued him with rosy cheeks and chapped lips. Wind howled, stabbing his hair rather than lifting it gently. He shivered despite himself and shoved his hands, already quite white, in his pockets. Maybe he ought to return home and face Bloo- he had no plans to become a Mac-sicle. Besides, street lamps flickered on and off, scarcely illuminating the sidewalk and stragglers. Ice patches were virtually indistinguishable from the asphalt and if his luck turned sour, down he'd go. 

Yet as he neared another corner, a large group of protestors gathered around a young, reasonably attractive African American girl blew his temporary concerns away. Dreadlocks framed her round face and as she raised her voice and body objectively, they sprung forth too. Brilliant brown eyes sparkled vivaciously and, like her words, behooved power. An iridescent gossamer scarf was wrapped snugly around her slim neck and dangled onto her rainbow colored jacket. Standing on her catbird seat, she commanded the attention of anyone ensnared in her web.

"Citizens! Why should we stand here and let our lives be ruled by insane, tyrannical dictators that kill our loved ones, friends, and imaginary friends daily? Why should we stand idly by and let them drive us into exile or, worse, like Foster's, hiding? When will we be free from DIE?" she screamed, flicking a lighter out of her pocket and holding its tiny flame above her head.

"Foster's are cowards. If we wait for them to strike, our great grandchildren will be dead by the time they feebly move forward! They've been hiding for thirty years, _thirty years_. We cannot place our hopes on someone who disappoint us unequivocally! The time has come for action and if not us, then who? The imaginary friends DIE has captured, tortured, and killed? Our human friends who suffered horrendously at their hands? NO!"

Whispers erupted, yet all fell silent when she withdrew another item from her pocket- a DIE poster. She edged her lit lighter towards the edges and set it ablaze. Waving it to and fro, she brandished it at the audience and then the streetlamps defiantly. Spellbound, eyes glued to her performance, none dared speak. When the flames licked her fingers, she released the poster and it crumbled to ashes on the ground.

"This is what I think of DIE," she murmured, yet the crowd, captivated, caught every word. "I think they're just like that piece of paper- flammable and flimsy under scrutiny."

She lifted one hefty black boot and trampled on the ashes. Grounding them into the dirt, she spat on the pile, kicked the dirt over, and faced them once more. Her thin frame quaked furiously, but not thanks to the chill. Holding their breath collectively, all waited with bated breath. Mac, too, found himself too preoccupied to notice his face had gone entirely red and rough. Who _was _this girl?

"And _this _is what I think of Foster's," she snarled, spitting twice on a transformer belt's shards. "I think they're broken and pathetic."

Mac's fists balled and his lower lip curled disdainfully. The spell shattered and, striding purposefully forward, he easily separated the crowd. Others, eyes widened, stared at him outrageously, mentally saying "how _dare _he challenge her!" Yet he paid them no mind and his contemptuous gaze swept all of them to settle upon her. Unperturbed, she gazed back. He wished to confront her? Bring it on.

"What would you like them to do? Jump in front DIE when they start shooting? Get us all killed for your sake? Would that make you happy?" Mac snapped, temper flaring. It wasn't so much her words alone but the combination of hers and Stevie's. Did their opinions reflect the common man's? Was hope in Foster's dwindling like her tiny flame, buoyed by the draft?

"I take it you're from Foster's," she remarked coolly, like an empirical queen addressing a subject. She held her head haughtily and his anger redoubled. What right had she to complain when she hadn't lived in Foster's? She had no idea their kindness and sympathy. All she believed were lies.

"Yes, I am and-" he began, but she cut him off.

"I take it you like living in fear?" she inquired, tone still frigid. His eyes narrowed, fists balled painfully, and his teeth clenched. He knew her game- she wished to force him into agreeing with her and thus, condemning his beloved Foster's. Well, he had no intention of playing.

"You'll live in fear no matter where you are. In case you haven't noticed, DIE likes to play target practice," he snarled, daring her to interrupt or contradict him. Naturally, she switched tacks instead to keep him on his toes. However, since it'd been quite a while since he'd sparred intellectually with anyone, particularly a girl, he relished the debate. He was determined to, if not win her over, at least get her to concede Foster's was not composed of cowards.

"At least then they'd be outside instead of hiding belowground. They shouldn't be afraid to die- I know I'm not. They would die gallantly instead of whimpering in a corner," she remarked coldly, examining her brightly painted nails absently as if this conversation bored her. Mac's blood boiled.

"Fools rush in where angels fear to tread," he retorted. "Getting yourself killed proves nothing other than mortality."

Her lower lip curled disdainfully and for a few moments, Mac thought he'd triumphed. She mulled over his words carefully, but ultimately composed a response. Smirking, she pivoted on her heel and faced him directly, eye to eye. Her stance indicated that she would grapple until the death if he dictated it.

"All evil needs to triumph is for good men to sit and do nothing," she replied. "Evil has already triumphed and ruined our happiness. It prevented me from creating an imaginary friend and keeps you and your loved ones belowground. It kills good creatures and tortures countless others. Don't you dare stand there and tell me that while Foster's deliberates, good creatures aren't dying. Don't you dare tell me that slinking off into the shadows is the best strategy because the only thing worse than planning in a basement is sitting in a coffin."

"And don't _you _dare tell me that resembling Swiss cheese is not only acceptable, but a good idea. At least we're _alive_," he snarled.

"You're alive without truly living. You might as well be full of bullet holes," she retorted.

"Is that so? So I'd be better off dead than with my imaginary friend? I'm sorry to say I disagree. And I'm sure he would too," he snapped, blood thundering in his ears. Never before had he been so tempted to hit a girl. It was better to be dead than live in this world? What the hell was this girl smoking? He'd take being alive any day, thank you very much!

"Maybe he would…if he weren't being hunted down like an animal. I know I'd rather be dead than look out my window to see them hurt someone else. I'm sick of living in a world where from the time you wake up until the time you go to sleep, you wish you could dream forever. Dreams are nice, but we need _action_. Foster's can keep dreaming- I _will _do something," she proclaimed, spreading her arms wide. Others, who Mac had quite forgotten were there, cheered loudly. In that instant, he despised each and every one of them for agreeing with her fanatical, insane ideas.

"And I suggest you join me."

"Why?" he hissed. "So Bloo can suffer certain death instead of the possibility? Thanks, but no thanks."

"The decision is yours of course, but if you ever wish to change your mind, I will be under the bridge waiting for you. My name is Charisse, though my parents, once upon a fairy tale time, called me Goo."

"Thank you," he said through gritted teeth, "but I doubt I will."

"Then enjoy your terror."

"Enjoy your kamikaze missions."

…


	12. Hook, Line, and Sinker

Chapter Twelve: Hook, Line, Sinker

Bloo lingered by the doorway, but his impatience got the better of him. He took to pacing the kitchen as many creatures and humans alike had. Truthfully, since their disagreement, guilt gnawed at him. Mac was pissed and if there was anything he couldn't stand, it was his creator furious with him. Not to mention he'd been gone for over an hour and there was a saying around Foster's- "gone with the wind in sixty minutes". Throat constricting, he leaned his forehead against the wall and swallowed hard.

"Mac, come back…"

* * *

Charisse, known as Goo in a happier world, sat and swung her legs back and forth. Yes, the steel and asphalt chilled her rear, but when it came to meditative spaces, nothing beat the bridge she usually called home. Her vantage point permitted her to trail a small, brown and black speck she knew was that boy. It'd been a while since anyone challenged her. A giddy chill induced a shiver having nothing to do with the near zero temperatures. She looked forward to another spar.

Not to mention humans with imaginary friends always interested her. When she was younger, her parents encouraged her to read, but never imagine a friend. They sensed upon its creation, DIE would knock on the door and assassinate them. Petrified, she'd done her best to stifle any desires to design her only companion, but it proved too tempting. The instant she shut her eyes and focused, DIE appeared. The rest was a blur of blood, screaming, and terror. Tears streamed freely down her face and she stubbornly wiped her face with her sleeve.

Daily, she repeated that DIE's arrival was coincidental and she was blameless. Unfortunately, the lie grew less convincing every time. She despised living guiltily, all the while searching ardently for their killers and hopelessly coming up empty. Meanwhile, the 'saviors' they placed their trust in continued to accomplish nothing and, in a small way, she blamed them as well. She'd grown up believing that Foster's could protect and help people and yet, where were they when she'd fabricated an imaginary friend and they died? Hiding like cowards, that's what. The day she became an orphan was the day she lost all faith.

A sultry wind lifted her hair, and then deposited it roughly upon her shoulders. Like her, it was bitter and eager to strike out at anything that might help. Secretly, it longed for the warmth and comfort of the sun; to dance and frolic like a summer breeze, but knew it was destined for less. Winter was death and decay; spring, renewal and strength. Yet here, it seemed to be forever winter, blanketing nothing and chilling creatures to the bone. Already, her fingers ached and her body trembled, but she obstinately refused to seek shelter. Where could she go, anyway? Absolutely nowhere. Too many homeless people roamed the streets and too few opened their doors.

Sure, Foster's might be an option, but she'd rather slit her wrists than enter the domicile of such cowards. Her mind drifted back to that boy whose faith lay so heavily in false ideas and she wondered just why he believed in them wholly. He'd mentioned a "Bloo", probably his imaginary friend, but she still discovered herself unable to sympathize, perhaps because she'd never given her imaginary a name before he was killed brutally. She'd grown up alone and could not identify with anyone who hadn't.

What would her life have been like if she'd been able to keep her imaginary and parents? Her imagination bore a permanent scar thanks to the incident and any further attempts to create another led to her curled up in a ball while horrific images danced through her head. Though she wasn't decidedly anti imagination, it held no promise to her. Yet others whose lives were impacted daily by their imagination and its products, how did they view this? Was that why they hid? She'd lost everything precious long ago and, thus, couldn't imagine an alternate timeline.

Laying flat on her back, she shut her eyes and pictured a world without DIE. Try as she might, nothing came to mind.

* * *

Carrying a potato chip bag, Mac trudged back home. Deep in thought about Goo, Stevie, and Ivan, he'd wandered into the store, purchased it, and then headed back out. Subconsciously, their words had frightened him into simply being grateful Bloo was still alive. He only hoped he understood the implications of sneaking out and what it might entail. If he obeyed him, he'd try to reward him as well as possible. Fresh air wasn't as important as staying alive- he wished everyone else comprehended that.

He placed his palm against the scanner, waited for it to read it, and then proceeded inside, where he immediately fell onto the floor. A warm, humanoid creature had flung himself at him and now eclipsed his lips into a sweet kiss. However, to poor Mac, who hadn't the foggiest clue what was going on, he struggled to stand, only Bloo's weight pushed him back down. It took him about five minutes to realize the jibber, shock of blue hair, and familiar sense belonged to his imaginary friend. (Then again, he _had _hit his head, so some allowances must be made).

"You're alive! Don't scare me like that! I was waiting a half hour for you to return! And ooh, you got my chips!" he cried, ripping them out of his hand and parading around. Mac, befuddled, managed a weak 'huh?" as Bloo danced happily. The teenager sat up gingerly and rubbed the back of his head. Okay…_ow_.

"I love you, Mac!" he cried, hoisting him up and hauling him off to watch TV. "And I promise I won't sneak out or leave without your permission again."

That, unfortunately, was a lie.

* * *

Blooregard Q. Kazoo was a lot of things. Unfortunately, an imaginary friend of his word was not one of them. Two weeks later, though the security remained high and DIE members everywhere congregated to discuss his possible position and how to capture him, he began to sneak out at night. He reasoned that the spies did it and besides, who could find him under the cloak of darkness? He was perfectly safe.

The best thing about it was Mac had no idea he left at all. He snuck out after he went to sleep and came back before he awoke. No one knew he was gone and no one missed him. Meanwhile, the nightlife beckoned (what little existed). It was the perfect crime.

Tonight, fresh air assuaged his irritated nostrils and, wrapping his cardigan tightly around his frame, he trod the infamous path to a local bar. Not that he drank, mind you, but the bright colors, loud music, and high energy called to him. Yes, DIE members frequented, but he'd never been sighted. Then again, they were probably too drunk to notice him. Innately, the little Mac voice in his head whispered he was pushing his luck, but he ignored him. Nothing was going to happen. He was going to have his cake and eat it too. It was only fair.

A girl with long, curly blonde hair frequented too and, after dousing several oddly tasting sodas, she often lured him into a conversation. She seemed to know a bit about Foster's and imaginary friends and, uninhibited, Bloo acted like his normal self. The girl didn't appear to mind- in fact, she acted as laidback as he. Of course, whenever he mentioned Mr. Herriman or Madame Foster, she immediately froze and started muttering darkly, but he didn't like the rule obsessed rabbit either, so he assumed that was the reason. After all, someone who knew this much about Foster's had to be living there too, even if he'd never seen her before. The belt snug around her waist supported this. If she wasn't an imaginary friend, why would she have a transformer in the first place? Sure, its color was different than his (the same color he'd spotted on DIE members), but it was one nonetheless.

Tonight was no exception. Drinking a pina colada and smiling demurely, she patted the seat adjacent. Since he only befriended her and no one else, he gladly pulled up the stool and glanced curiously at the drink proffered. It smelled funky, but he was sure that it couldn't be spiked. Why would she want to get him drunk? What a ridiculous idea. Yet the Mac voice, a.k.a. his conscience, screamed he was entrapping himself. He gulped down the fiery liquid, winced as it burned down his throat, and then smirked. The voice silenced.

Sipping her own drink demurely, she slipped an arm around his waist and stroked the side of his face. Bloo swung his head, but it dizzied him. In fact, the world spun. He felt giddy, but not entirely sober. Unfortunately, the high his drink produced overrode the Mac voice now practically shrieking at the top of his lungs. Nothing was going to happen, jeez. What on earth was it prattling on about? There was no way he'd gotten tipsy. He was just exceedingly happy.

"Now, let's talk about Foster's, okay?" she murmured, pecking him on the cheek. Distantly, the Mac voice screamed, "this isn't me! Don't let her do this!" He wanted to listen, really he did, and he comprehended her coming onto him was wrong because he had his precious Mac, but it wouldn't sink in. Nothing would. He floated adrift, anchored only by her kisses, strokes, and body heat. Why was it so warm in here?

"Foster's?" he repeatedly dumbly, scarcely acknowledging her hauling him off the stool, slipping the bartender a twenty, and carting him off to a car parked outside. Her hand slipped under his shirt to massage his back and he melted, completely ignoring her barking orders at the driver, a group of black clad people ambling by the vehicle, and their saluting her. He hardly reacted when she shoved him none too gently in the back, either, or the ropes that bound his arms and legs.

"Yes, Foster's," she snapped impatiently, but on his ears it rolled off harmlessly. She was angry with him like Mac frequently was, but she'd get over it and forgive him. Mac always did. Hmm, he wondered where he was. Whenever he went out in public, he liked to have his creator by…wouldn't he be upset he missed this. They hadn't gone for a car ride since his mother died.

He leaned his head on her shoulder and pretended it was Mac. Hmm, he wasn't as soft as her, was he? And he didn't have a nice chest like her, either. So pleasant, like a pillow. Maybe she wouldn't mind if he slept on it.

A stinging slap accompanied by his head striking the armrest soon halted that half constructed thought process. He tried to rub the sore spot, but his arms jerked haltingly together then collapsed uselessly by his side. Bewildered, he glanced at her questioningly, but in his state, failed to figure out anything. Blankly, he swallowed hard, but the action brought vomit up; he leaned over, expelling the poison. Behind him, she shrieked, pissed to no end regarding the damage he'd done to her upholstery. She slapped him again across the face.

"I don't feel too good…" he mewled like a kitten. "I want Mac."

She snarled, striking a third time and digging her nails into his cheeks. He cried out, but she dug ferociously, leaving gashes. Whimpering, he continued to cry his creator's name until she kneed him in the jaw. Pain exploded, but, thanks to the alcohol, was dulled considerably. He quieted, however.

"You're not going to tell me anything, are you?" she growled, punching him in the eye. "No matter _what_ I do, you're going to keep wailing his name."

"Mac…" Bloo whispered. "Help me…"

"Fuck this!" she screamed and slammed her fists on the back of his neck. The world combusted into bright lights, agony, and then, darkness.

* * *


	13. Waking

Chapter Thirteen: Waking

Pain welcomed him back to consciousness and Bloo rolled over. He fully expected to hug Mac to his chest, nuzzle his hair, lick his cheek, and give him a love bite. However, realization dawned slowly when he tried to stretch, but discovered his arms pinned to his sides. He forced his eyes open, and then winced when the light not only hit him, but practically obliterated his sight. Ugh, and the birds chirping outside were way too loud. Who told them to turn the volume up on the sun and animals? He had a headache from it all.

However when his eyes fell upon the white, plush carpet beside him and Mac's absence, what little he remembered flooded back. He craned his neck to glance down and spot his straitjacket, swallowed hard, and clenched his eyes shut. Maybe if he opened them again, he'd wake to find Mac staring at him. Unfortunately, after trying about five times, the only change was a pair of pink boots kicking him across the room. Bloo tasted carpet many times over as he tumbled head over heels smack into her desk. He cringed as it struck the back of his head and then, once again, when her heel dug its way into his throat.

"Good morning, Blooregard," she hissed and, despite the mind numbing pain in his head and jaw and tearing eyes, he looked up. Curly strawberry blonde hair framed a heart shaped force with the coldest blue eyes he'd ever seen glaring into his own. Now that he scrutinized her, he wondered how he missed the obvious age gap between them. She had to be at least in her late thirties, maybe early forties and part of him silently cheered he'd interested an older woman, but the other half was repulsed. He also had the sinking sensation a love interest was the least of his worries at the moment.

His eyes, determinedly straying from hers, descended upon an old picture of a blonde haired girl and what could only be an imaginary friend with pink pigtails who kissed her cheek. The pink haired girl bore a t-shirt reading "Berry" and the other wore one entitled "Virginia is for lovers." The towheaded, sickly girl had an arm wrapped possessively around her waist, but her eyes were downcast. Meanwhile, the pink haired girl was grinning evilly as she placed a hand on her petite chest.

"That's me," she said suddenly, releasing his neck. Bloo gasped, greedily sucking air in. She paid him no mind and, hoisting the photo off the table, thumbed the towheaded girl's face affectionately.

"And once upon a time, she was my lover."

Blinking, rolling over onto his side to spit out blood, he tried to shrug. As heartening as her story might be, he cared little. Why should he? He just desired to be back with Mac and ravish in his affections. Who _cared _about this chick's love life? Honestly.

"She betrayed me, so I stole her form after she died. I specifically hired the same treacherous humans who failed to keep her alive to create the first transformer and then I killed them. I tossed out a defunct version that only permitted imaginaries to switch back between one human form and their regular guise and Foster's picked it up. Feh, it's only thanks to me you're not all dead in the first place," she detailed and Bloo yawned. Frustrated, she growled and kneed him in the groin. The equivalent of a sledge hammer crashing into tender, volatile flesh brought bile back up and he thought he was going to throw up.

"If I weren't interested in making you my mate, you would be too," she snarled, stringing him up by his hair, extracting a hot glue gun, and gluing him to the wall. Bloo screamed as the hot glue penetrated the straitjacket and burned skin. He crunched his eyes shut, tried to weakly contact Mac, and then gave up when she wrapped a hand around his throat.

_Somebody, anybody, help me. I need you, Mac…_he thought, a tear sliding down his cheek. She slapped him and spat in his face.

"Every time you cry, I will slap you. Every time you show any sign of weakness, I will hit you until you either shut up or fall unconscious. Every time I order you to do something, you will obey without question. I am Berry, head of DIE, and you are my bitch. Do you understand?" she snapped, squeezing his throat. Bloo, unable to protest or flail, nodded feebly, but she didn't release him just yet. She waited until his face acquired a new hue of blue, and then gradually reduced pressure. Once finished, Bloo panted, driven to the point of tears again. She smirked, caressing his cheek. He shuddered deeply, turning his head.

The hand gripped his throat again, constricted painfully, and Bloo almost passed out. When she relinquished her hold, he pleaded pitifully, like a dying cat. She listened to his whispers momentarily, and then dug her nails into the grooves she'd created last night. Bloo yelped, unable to stop himself, and she snarled in his face. Recoiling, he slammed his head against the wall by accident. She smirked, gently extracting her nails.

"Kiss me," she demanded. "You're my mate. You need training because you're a rude little imaginary friend. Now kiss me."

To her astonishment and shock, he shook his head vehemently. His lips formed the name "Mac" and then "my heart belongs to him".

If she possessed any magic, she might have destroyed half her office in that instant. Instead, fury boiled her blood, split ends, and she kneed him again in the groin, choked him, and then bit his lip hard enough so it bled profusely. She let up on his throat to cuff him, and then bite his upper lip as well. Bloo headbutted her furiously, struggling madly against his confines. Ultimately, the only thing it accomplished was a larger headache.

Oddly, she smirked, wrapping her legs on either side of his body and pressing her chest against his. She licked the blood off and ran it across his teeth. Bloo shuddered, wishing he could shove her away. He tried to bite her tongue, but she closed her mouth. She anticipated all his moves.

"Resistance is futile."

* * *

Mac, too, awoke with a raging headache, only, unlike Bloo, his had no rhyme or reason. He glanced at the spot next to him where Bloo often snuck in so he could awake his creator in his style, but it was empty. Alarm bells chimed, but he swallowed hard, deciding he shouldn't jump to conclusions. Besides, maybe he'd just gone to the bathroom. Yet when he looked in the empty bathroom and his own empty room, his panic levels rose again.

Maybe Madame Foster would know where he was. He gingerly rubbed his peculiarly aching jaw, head, and temples. It felt like he had a hangover, but that made no sense. Nor did the dream he had, either, but hopefully in the light of morning, it might fade away into nothingness. He was paranoid, that was it. That explained his dreams involving Bloo at a bar and imbuing dangerous amounts of alcohol; he fretted in his sleep. He'd never brought it up with Bloo since it seemed ludicrous to think Bloo would be slipping out to get drunk. Insane, really.

Nonetheless, he paced the living room since Madame Foster routinely, fastidiously checked the news every morning at seven o'clock. He slumped onto the couch, but sprung up immediately afterwards to pace again. Though his link with Bloo was indeed tenuous, he had always been able to sense him when necessity dictated. Yet when he reached out towards his imaginary friend, all he clutched were straws that slipped through his fingers. Bloo was completely beyond him and his heart sunk into his stomach. He couldn't kick the notion something was seriously wrong and his Bloo needed him.

Frustrated, he flung his mental link as far as it would go and on the most distant reaches, finally snagged throbbing, agony, and everything Mac himself experienced to a lesser degree. He attempted to rein him in, but the connection disassembled itself. Grand, so his suspicions _were _correct and something _had _happened to him. His trepidation doubled and he wished he'd see him walking in the door right now, because he was this close to panicking.

Madame Foster bid him a good morning and he asked through clenched teeth. Glancing at the television, he whole heartedly expected and desired them to announce the hunt was still on for Bloo. Yet the reporters smugly informed its viewers the hunt was over, so stop looking, and then proceeded onto other news. Mac's heart, already in his stomach, dissolved in the acid. He slumped off the couch and onto the floor in dismay. The rest of the news faded into noise as he contemplated the facts. Bloo was missing and what he felt of him was horrible and they'd stopped their search for him. Horror struck, he glanced at Madame Foster and hoped she had some good news.

"Madame Foster, you don't think…?" he left the sentence dangling, the end unbearable. His face resembled the color of sour milk and his hands trembled badly. _Lie to me…tell me the good guys always win and no one ever dies…_

"Mac, do you know where Bloo is right now?" she said seriously, gently hoisting him to his feet. Abashed, he contemplated the rug instead of her and she sighed.

"Neither do I, but I have an idea it's nowhere he ought to be."

* * *

"Bloo's-" Madame Foster began, but Frankie cut her off. The typical congregation location, the kitchen, now housed Frankie, Mr. Herriman, and his creator. Mr. Herriman leaned against Frankie's chair and his knuckles beneath his gloves were white. He stroked the side of her face when he thought his creator wasn't looking, but immediately stood to attention when she turned her head.

"Yes, we know," Frankie said with a sigh. "I check the sign in and sign out records every morning. All friends and humans who pass through our halls are scanned both upon entrance and exit- Bloo was registered as leaving, but not returning. For the last couple of weeks, he's been sneaking out at night and coming back early in the morning. I didn't tell Mac because I assumed he knew…"

Mr. Herriman sighed as well, placing a comforting paw on her shoulder. She rubbed against his fur, then swiftly pretended she hadn't. Madame Foster rolled her eyes, but refrained from commenting. Their relationship was their business, not hers. As long as they abstained from public displays of affection that disgusted her, she didn't care how they acted.

"How are we going to tell Mac his best friend and lover has been captured by DIE?" Frankie murmured. "Or that once Berry's done playing with him, he'll be dead?"

"If he isn't already," Mr. Herriman muttered darkly. Neither commented, though both privately agreed. Still, the thought of Mac losing Bloo like that wasn't exactly easy to swallow. None of them relished the idea of telling him his imaginary friend was dead or worse. Frankie leaned across the table to glance into the darkened living room at Mac, who sat incomprehensibly watching TV. Her heart went out to him.

Madame Foster stirred a freshly brewed pot of coffee, poured out three mugs for them, and then sat back down. She swirled her spoon around, mixing sweetener, milk, and cream. Moments passed interminably while they sipped and reflected. In the living room, flickers of light flashed randomly and Frankie rose, deciding she ought to try to comfort him. Of the three, she was best at breaking bad news thanks to experience. How she loathed it.

"I suppose their link must be considerably weaker than ours," Mr. Herriman said, watching Frankie weave her way into the living room and drape an arm around Mac's shoulders. He reluctantly tore his gaze away and eyed his creator.

"If he didn't notice him leaving every night…" he trailed off, closing the curtain between the rooms. Not that it really did anything, but he wanted privacy and he was sure Frankie felt the same way. At least with it hanging in the doorway, he had its semblance. Madame Foster nodded approvingly at his gesture, but frowned thoughtfully at his words.

"They are supposed to be, well, lovers," he murmured and she bit back a smile. He'd always had a hard time accepting that particular fact. Homosexuality had been a touchy subject, one he usually bristled at, but in the case of Mac and Bloo, he'd been forced to make an exception.

"That means nothing," she said finally. "They might have shared their bodies (and don't make that face at me, Funny Bunny!), but they haven't opened up their minds to each other yet. Our bond is more mental than physical and theirs is reverse. Their emotional and spiritual link has never been tested like ours. The only parts they possess are wrought through their years together and not experience.

"They aren't _weak_, but neither has revealed himself to the other. And until Bloo can, Mac might never see him again."

* * *

"You all right, pal?" Frankie murmured, cradling him like a mother would. In a sad way, Frankie was the closest thing he could remember. She stroked his hair affectionately, but he wasn't comforted. The only thing in the world that could make him feel better was Bloo's return.

Gently, she wrestled the remote out of his hands and shut off the TV. Now, the only light came through the bottom of the curtain and the kitchen beyond. He shifted, accepting what little she offered though it hardly helped, and rested against her. At least the darkness appeased his eyes- maybe he'd sleep…until he came back. Yes, that made absolutely no sense, but he had nothing else right now.

"They act like he's some sort of prize and now that he's off the market, people have to find a new way to make a buck," Mac muttered. "Like he's not my imaginary friend and lover, but an item you can just pick up at the store. And they do this all the time, it doesn't matter who the person or imaginary friend was. They're all the same in their eyes.

"And someone benefited off Bloo's disappearance…it's not fair…"

Smiling weakly, she hugged him tightly and tousled his hair affectionately. Try as he might, the teenager couldn't even move his lips upwards. Simply thinking about smiling was out of his reach at the moment…just like Bloo. He wanted to slam his head against something in desperation and scream his name. Perhaps Frankie sensed this, because she squeezed his hand comfortingly.

"Kiddo, I don't know if you noticed, but _life's _unfair. You have to roll with it. But at least there's one bit of semi good news I can give you…if Bloo were dead, you'd know instantly. There's still hope."

"I wish I could believe you…"

* * *


	14. Duplicity

Author's Note: Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah! Foster's is not mine. (sticks tongue out)  


Chapter Fourteen: Duplicity

Click, click, click. Berry's pink high heeled boots accompanied its person as she encircled Bloo like a vulture around its prey. Back to laying on the carpet, still in his straitjacket, Bloo watched helplessly and scarcely stifled outbursts whenever she randomly kicked him. Vomit's aftertaste lingered in his mouth, but he knew better than to spit on her rug. Fear won out over rebellion and he awaited her next move.

For the last three hours, she'd tried every tactic known to imaginary friend and human to beguile him into willingly joining her side. The only thing it accomplished was giving him more bruises, a possibly broken bone somewhere, and aches. Already he'd unwittingly confessed to missing Mac and hating her, but nothing useful. The former had resulted in another blow to his lower jaw and a boot to the groin. He curled up in a ball and whimpered for an hour afterwards.

Currently, she yanked him up by his blue hair and flung him onto her desk. He nearly toppled off, but she halted his progress in the nick of time. Eyes glittering maliciously, she leered, cupping his tender chin in her palm. He winced, swallowing hard, determined not to meet her gaze head on. He'd decided a while ago glancing into her eyes was like looking into a Gorgon's.

"You are minedo you hear me? There's no point in disobeying me because I will beat you down, even if it takes _decades_," she snarled, but he obstinately refused to meet her icy blue eyes. Sanity flickered momentarily, and then vanished immediately, but Bloo wasn't looking. Instead, he clenched his eyes and pictured Mac saying the first part. He smiled softly, agreeing. As long as Mac agreed he was the best imaginary friend ever and then made out with him. Shivers coursed down his neck conjecturing it.

"Listen to me, you stupid fuck!" she snarled, slapping him in the back of the head, and then slamming it onto the table. Bloo saw stars, but, perturbed because she interrupted a daydream involving Mac, himself, and very little clothing, spat in her face. His spittle trailed down her cheek, dripped off her chin, and fell onto her lapel. In the time it takes sound to reach someone's ears, her face's color altered from its normal, pale pink to red to a delicate shade of puce. Her nails tore off the neck restraints to burrow into his throat.

Suddenly, a disarming, painful smile crossed her face and she flung him into the wall. Blood trickled out of a wound in the back of his head and smeared. A piteous moan, like a plaintive kitten, escaped his lips; he clenched his eyes shut and suppressed a shudder. What now? Why was she _smiling _like the Cheshire cat about to devour him for breakfast? Man, he wished Mac was here. More than anything, he longed for his headache (already a million times worse thanks to her throwing him around) to vanish and Mac to suddenly show up, sweep him into his arms, and take him back to Foster's. Unfortunately, it seemed the dream he'd enjoyed had ended…and the waking nightmare had begun.

* * *

Sore from head to toe, Blooregard Q. Kazoo gratefully sank into oblivion, but everything Berry had told him about creators, creations, and trust echoed in his dreams, aided by perhaps more than just his subconscious…

* * *

_Mac skidded on the ice, but never stopped running. Single digit weather chapped Bloo's humanoid lips, froze his fingers, and every other bit of skin left to the elements. He called out to his creator, but he obstinately refused to listen. Indeed, whenever he spoke, he shoved his earmuffs on tighter. Normally, Bloo would immediately tell himself this was a dream, nothing more, and he'd never ignore him like this. But…_

_Berry's words reverberated. "Creators don't care for their creations…they abandon them as quickly as possible…they pretend to love them so they can betray them…"_

_Awake, he'd never even acknowledge her comments, but asleep, faced with Mac fleeing him, her words started to take root. He shook his head to dispel the notion he'd consider this, but her words, taunting and threatening, encircled him. The harder he shoved them away, the more forceful they became. Their sheer strength choked him mentally and, in his dream, Mac finally halted to regard his creation. Hate…God, where had it come from?_

_Bloo retreated, shuddering in the wake of his creator's sudden mood change. Hate radiated from his chestnut eyes, once so warm and familiar, and his whole posture shifted from ease to tense, balled fury. The last people he'd seen him glare at this fiercely were DIE members. But, he wasn't a member of DIE. He was his imaginary friend, his lover, his _best _friend._

_"You ruined my life, you know. If I didn't have to keep defending, protecting, and shielding you, I could live normally. It's **your **fault I breathe moldy air every day and duck behind walls to keep from getting killed. It's **your **fault I'm miserable, Bloo. You killed my mother and you're going to get me too. You're stupid, selfish, conceited, and a completely useless idea. I wish I'd never imagined you," Mac spat, bitterness and loathing etched in every syllable. _

_Stunned, Bloo stared blankly, but Berry's words resurfaced. "Creators don't care for their creations…they pretend to love them so they can betray them…" He wouldn't, couldn't believe this. Mac would never say anything like this. Mac loved him…didn't he? He might've sacrificed his livelihood for Bloo, but if he really hated him, wouldn't he have gotten rid of him years ago? _

_Yet the words held a grain of truth. Their last serious disagreement had involved similar things. But Mac couldn't be serious. This dream Mac was far removed from real life, wasn't he? If he was, though, why were his words so strikingly similar? **Could **he have his fun and then abandon him like tissue paper? **Could **he fling him away because he was sick of living underground? His deepest, innermost fears, the ones he never pondered normally, much less vocalized, rose. Since they became more than friends, his anxiety over betrayal and abandonment had secretly greatened, not lessened. And now, with Berry's words and his swirling together, his heart pounded and he begged for release from this infernal place. Yet none came._

_"Tell, tell me you love me, Mac. Tell me you'll never leave me. **Please**," he whispered, tears brimming. Eyes narrowed to slits, he wended his way through the snow and placed his hands on his imaginary friend's shoulders. Unmitigated malevolence shone brightly, agonizingly. Bloo remembered them shining affectionately, sometimes angrily, but never like this. Never like he seriously wished him dead. His stomach dropped out of his body and his heart was soon after._

_"I told you I loved you, but I lied. I'll never leave you…I'll **ditch **you. I hate you," he snapped, spitting in his face. Tears streamed down his cheeks, but, instead of thumbing them away like he normally did, he laughed. His heart broke into two, but all he could do was stand there and guffaw. Each uproarious outburst shattered his heart further and he collapsed onto his knees._

_"I told you he'd betray you…" she whispered._

_

* * *

_  
Berry ran her fingers through Bloo's sweat soaked hair. In his sleep, he whimpered, unconsciously leaning against her. Whenever he cried his name, she whispered more lies. Everyone knew people were far more susceptible to suggestions in slumber, because the subconscious took over and all imaginary friends with creators secretly questioned their loyalty. All it took to coax them over to her side was a little plying and manipulation, then they seldom returned. Of course, the ones who did were immediately killed. Spies served her better dead than alive.

"They're all the same, Bloo," she murmured into his ear. "They're all liars. DIE punishes only the deserving. Punish Mac, Bloo. Rip out his heart like he ripped out yours. He never loved you."

Bloo shuddered, jerking and mouthing his name. When he finally opened his eyes, tears swum and, too terrified to care who he ran to, he queried her. He looked so very childish and young, perfectly naïve and innocent for her plans. It was always preferable to break them early on, before they caused her too much grief. He was vulnerable now, as she anticipated, and a few well placed words would complete the illusion.

"He wouldn't?" he whispered, choking back sobs. "He loves me…he's…he's my Mac…"

She hugged him to her chest, stroked his hair, and planted a motherly kiss on the top of his head. Surprised by her comfort but not questioning it, he relaxed slightly into her embrace.

"Love is a lie, Bloo. It's best we acknowledge that because you've fallen badly. He can't care for you. He pretends he does, but in the end, he'll leave you.

"I'll never leave you. I'll love you until the end of everything because I'm better than human. I'm imaginary and I can't die. I will protect you."

* * *

Mac jolted awake, shivering uncontrollably. All day, he'd shuddered, cringed, and winced erratically, all the while thinking of Bloo. Frankie had to practically shovel food down his throat at dinner; when he retired to his room and fell asleep, he had the oddest dream. He'd been in it, but outside of it at the same time. Unable to stop any of the proceedings, he watched powerlessly as his dream counterpart fed Bloo lie after lie. Something or someone held him back; he'd plummeted to the ground the instant his beloved imaginary friend started crying…and awoke, warm but shivering all the same. 

Huddling under the covers, he tried to dispel the notion something was very, very wrong. Of course, it was rather difficult when he contemplated the dream and the reality- Bloo had been missing since last night and no one knew where he was. Not to mention everything bizarre that had occurred today and phantom pains. His heart ached for him- this was the longest they'd been apart in their lives.

"I don't know where you are, Bloo, but I miss you and I love you. Don't believe anyone else."

* * *

Frankie dragged herself out of bed, checked the logs to see if he'd snuck back in, but nothing promising. She hugged her fluffy pink bathrobe to her chest (honestly, she'd been too drained and cold to wander around in a nightgown and bunny slippers) and meandered down the well worn steps to one of Foster's secret entrances. At least there was no danger of Bloo divulging their location, since even thinking of it would trigger the transformer's self destruction mechanism, taking out imaginary and target. 

Frowning lightly, she huddled on the stairs and wondered what might become of him. Berry's toy, but for how long? After the loss of his family, how would Mac cope if he died? Her heart went out to the little guy, who clearly had endured more than his fair share of tragedy. Then again, so had they all.

Hugging her knees to her chest, she swallowed back the lump in her throat. A furry brush against her cheek caused her to raise her head. Odd, she hadn't even heard him approach. Yet here he was.

With great difficulty, looking rather undignified in the process, he sat on his haunches by her side. Frankie suppressed a snicker at the immense discomfort on his face and rose, helping him to his feet before he cramped in that position. Sometimes, she swore he forgot he was normally a rabbit. Smirking, she held onto him a moment longer than necessary and listened to his heartbeat. Strong and steady.

"I think perhaps it is time for bed, Frankie," he murmured, wrapping his arms around her. "You can worry about Bloo in the morning."

Smiling devilishly, her hand sliding down to his transformer belt, she replied, "Whose bed?"

* * *

Blooregard Q. Kazoo shut his eyes, reopened them, and turned his steely, contemptuous gaze onto Mac's recorded visage. Though his body quaked, he slid his cold blue eyes onto old pictures of Madame Foster and Mr. Herriman (since no one had seen them in public since DIE rose). After plying, subliminal messages, and torture, he'd finally renounced his old life. Yes, she admitted he was the hardest to break of every other imaginary friend she'd ever overseen, but it was worth it. 

Sunset today, her best group and he would ambush Herriman, lure him out of Foster's, and destroy him. She anticipated the look on the imaginary rabbit's face when Bloo dealt the finishing blow.

* * *


	15. Failure

Author's Note/Disclaimer: Happy New Year! Hope y'all aren't too hung over/exhausted to read this chappie. (And if you are and read it anyway, don't tell me. Please).

Foster's Home doesn't belong to me, in case y'all forgot. (That's two y'alls from the Yankee, lol).

Chapter Fifteen: Failure

Twilight descended and, inhaling deeply, he rubbed his ungloved hands together both to induce warmth and to match the malicious smile on his face. At this stage in the game, his task was quite simple, to lure or drag Mr. Herriman out of Foster's by any means necessary. Once he accomplished that, the rest should go without a hitch. At least, that was Berry's theory. However, to Bloo, whose brainwashing was not entirely complete and found himself second guessing his motives, it might not go off at all.

* * *

Nerves frayed, stomach squirming unpleasantly, Bloo slipped into his old home. He didn't know why, but he was having second thoughts about this. Berry told him that they were the enemy and never to trust them, but if they hated him so much, why had they protected him for so long? Shaking his head, he crept along the walls like a criminal until he spotted his prey. His stomach lurked sickeningly. What if this _wasn't _the right thing?

Inhaling deep, musty air, he whipped off his facemask and forced himself to smile. Like Berry the day before, the action actually hurt, but not because he hadn't done it in years. Every bruise, now covered by makeup, revealed the extent of his torture previously. His eyes darted here and there, hoping to catch one glimpse of his creator. He wasn't sure what he'd say to him, but if he just spotted a mere silhouette, he might pursue it and not this foolhardy concept. Yet was Berry right? Was he fated to betray him?

A familiar shadow flitted by a distinct tunnel (since he fancied them tunnels, not halls); his heart leapt in his chest. Eager, he plodded onward, but a shrill shriek stilled his step. Wincing, he glanced at his new pink transformer (a gift from Berry that tracked his movements and detected whether nearby creatures were imaginary or human). It flashed irritatingly and, grimacing, he whipped out a small compact mirror (standard issue) and her irate eyes met his. He swallowed hard, unable to look away. She was, after all, his master (since she refused to use the term 'mistress', deeming it below her true rank).

"Where do you think you're going?" she growled; out of the corner of his eye, Mac slowly vanished down an adjacent tunnel. Bloo yearned to fling all caution to the winds and chase after him. Perhaps she saw the longing in his eyes, because her next comment addressed it directly.

"He's worthless. You don't need him. Have you forgotten what we discussed at length? Get what we came here for and no side trips," she snarled, waggling a warning finger. Hopes dashed, he shut the mirror, shoved it into his right hip pocket, and started off towards the kitchen.

There, nursing a warm mug of cocoa, sat Mr. Herriman. Frankie nuzzled his cheek, ran her fingers through his fur, then wrapped her arms around his neck. Bloo swallowed hard, conscience screaming, but its impact subdued thanks to Berry's preaching. Instead, he mentally scoffed at her possessiveness. The two leaned in for a quick kiss and, when they moved away, Herriman beamed.

Scowling, he realized the only way, short of knocking Frankie out, to extract Herriman was to create a diversion. Jeez, how come he'd never noticed how lovey-dovey they were before? He was brushing her hair away with his paw and stroking her face. Bloo wasn't sure he wanted to gag or grab Mac, but Berry's teachings prodded him in the back again. Of course he didn't want the latter, because he'd just turn around and betray him.

Withdrawing a few tiny, non-lethal explosives, he, sick to his stomach again, pitched them down the corridor Mac had just vacated. Frankie immediately stood, panicking, but before Herriman could follow, Bloo ambushed him. Whipping off his facemask, he asserted someone in the snow needed their help. Wishing his Mac voice would, even in its weaker form, shut the hell up, he directed him straight into a trap.

* * *

Nasty smirks abounded underneath black facemasks greeted him upon his return. Honestly, he hadn't thought it'd be this easy. The bewildered imaginary rabbit twitched, dread, fret, and, finally, his survival instinct kicking in. Mr. Herriman was being faced down by six humans (or imaginaries in disguise) clad in black, cracking their knuckles threatening, and at the beck and call of someone he thought trustworthy. His legs quaked, but ere he started fleeing, one separated from the pack and shoved him into the asphalt. On the ice, he skidded and fell.

"Master Bloo…" he moaned and he glanced away, refusing to meet his eyes. The others snickered, two darting to pin him down. Nonetheless, the powerful imaginary friend kicked valiantly, his long legs muscular and intimidating. No one was quite certain how to contend with them.

Finally, frustrated, someone slammed a fist into his face. Dazed, Mr. Herriman stopped struggling long enough for two more to join the foray. Soon, the air was rent with the sound of fist hitting furry flesh, the leaden smell of blood, and his cries. Bloo stood, irresolute. The part of him still under Berry's intoxication told him to accompany in the revelry, but then there was the look on his face and his moment with Frankie in the kitchen.

"Master Blooregard, listen to me! You cannot be with DIE! You are with _us_, Foster's. You and Master Mac!" he cried, kicking obstinately and missing tremendously. Blood poured out of wounds on his chest; his tuxedo had been torn to tatters, his bowler long trashed, and, after his plea, one of the gang extracted a machete to cut off a chunk of his ear. Herriman howled, writhing as liquid pain poured out. Eyes wet, he gazed at Bloo desperately, but Berry's arguments triumphed momentarily at the mention of Mac's name. How _dare _he bring him into this! This was why he wasn't worthy of salvation, like Berry said. Because he relied too heavily on humans and their stupid ways. Just like before, when he was kissing Frankie.

"Not anymore!" Bloo snarled, slamming his fist dangerously close to his heart. Another shot nearly broke his neck. Yet as he assaulted him, his anger ebbed away, replaced by confusion. Why was he doing this again? Yes, he relied heavily on humans, but did that entitle him to the beating of his life? Did that give them permission to slash, gash, and tear up his fur like a racecar on a runway?

Half mad, agonized by his injuries, he fought tooth and nail, actually attempting to bite people. He screamed Frankie's name, then his creator's, and finally, plead once more with Bloo. Bloo shook his head to dispel his wails, but they penetrated deeper, shattering Berry's influence completely. That, and the sight of the machete about to slash his jugular vein.

Knocking aside the arm, Bloo deflected the blow, but not before the knife cut deeply into his own cheek and gouged out flesh from below his right eye to his chin. If he hadn't screamed, clutched his profusely bleeding wound, he would have lost an eye. Anguish, like being branded by a hot iron, caused him to fall to his knees and bellow. Blood streamed like tears down his cheek and soaked his jacket.

Why hadn't anyone told him that splitting his cheek open would hurt like hell? The branding stepped up to unbearable heat mixed with barbed wire twisting and burning like the sun. Bloo buried his face in the snow, but it wouldn't go away. Instead, red polluted the pure white and the blistering cold only further irritated his gash. Tears choked his vision, but his steady loss weakened him. Not to mention he was dizzy…and when he brought his hands up to massage the wound, he felt his insides and blood rushed over. He pushed himself up to vomit.

Meanwhile, behind him, no one quite knew what to do. If Bloo weren't a member of DIE, they would have severed his spine minutes ago, but one of their own, especially Berry's pet, and they were in for it. How on earth were they going to explain that they'd inadvertently nearly killed him and marred his face for life? Not to mention he kept thrashing, shrieking, and gushing like a freakin' waterfall. At least Mr. Herriman had fallen unconscious.

"Oh, God…Mac…" he whimpered. "It hurts so bad…Mac…"

Queasy themselves, they did the only thing that came to mind- they bailed. Bloo rolled over onto his front to watch them flee like mice before a cat. He moaned, doing the only thing that came to _his _mind, and staggered the hundred feet back to Foster's. Never had the palm register had so much difficulty with his hand, splotched with both his blood and Herriman's. It went haywire, about to issue an alert when Frankie stepped out, having heard the commotion. (Though the sounds had been too muffled to distinguish particular voices).

Frankie craned her neck and Bloo shuffled uncomfortably, guilt wracked. Her jade eyes widened upon sight of his face and he swore, wishing he'd an opportunity to hide the extent. Color drained swiftly and she grabbed his arm to yank him inside. He shook his head, shrugging her off. Yes, he needed medical attention, but that wasn't the point. Yes, he wanted Mac too, but there was no point in mentioning that either.

"Holy shit, Bloo…" she breathed. "What the hell _happened_?"

Shaking his head and wishing immediately he hadn't, because dizziness overtook him, he pointed at Herriman's prone figure. Any remaining color disappeared and she darted to his side. Once she was no longer paying any attention to him, Bloo fled too, unable to deal with the grief. He passed out soon after.

* * *

Horrified, Frankie cradled her beloved Herriman to her chest. His chest fell, but in the tense few seconds that it failed to raise, her own heart stopped. Already, it felt like someone had ripped her open and trampled on her innards. Just twenty minutes ago, he'd been whole, intact, and sharing an affectionate moment. Now, he was just lying here like he was practically dead. She was too shocked to cry.

Tufts of fur were missing from his chest and she spotted nasty bruises lurking beneath the fur that hadn't been brutally ripped away. The pink skin showing was purple, in places pierced. She couldn't even begin to figure out where the slashes started and ended. One of his feet had been nearly wrenched from his body and she spat, fury replacing her astonishment.

"A fucking souvenir," she snapped, weeping unabashed. "Isn't that what you wanted, Berry? A fucking rabbit's foot. Then you could hang him…hang him on your mantelpiece like the little cunt you are…"

Swiftly, she took his heartbeat, ascertained one remained, and then lay her head on his chest to sob into his fur (what little remained). Clutching him like a life preserver, she bawled. Snow landed on her nape and, jarred back to her senses, she glanced down to contemplate how she was going to move him into their hideout and then tend to him. Kneeling, she draped one of his badly mangled arms around her neck, wrapped her other arm around his waist, and dragged him back. The scanner gave them trouble, but the door opened quietly to reveal Madame Foster, scrutinizing the two critically but permitting them entrance. Questions later, treatment now.

* * *

Bloo awoke to Berry lording over him. He reached up to feel his face, but gauze and stitches now covered his gash. Smiling thankfully only induced agony, so he stopped quickly. She crouched to his side, stroked his wounded side, and then hissed. Hopping on one foot then the other, the rest of her motley assassination crew waited agitatedly. Bloo had the impression she was angrier with them than she was with him. At least, he hoped so (and what had she administered? That whole half of his face was numb).

"I want to know how this happened," she snapped. "And if you lie to me, so help you, because I _will _kill you. You return to me minus a rabbit carcass and one of my inferiors tells me he had to hoist Bloo out of a snow bank because otherwise, he would have _died_. What the fuck happened out there?"

Jabbing her finger in the air close to his wound, she snarled, "And how did _this _happen? Whose bright idea was it to try to murder my acolyte? I want answers. And if I don't get them in about thirty seconds, heads will roll. And that's not just a figure of speech."

No one was brave enough to speak up. Shuffling madly, they averted their gaze and considered the rug instead. However, a bullet from a gun she kept on her transformer belt caused them to jump and lent them courage born from the desire to live. She twiddled the trigger on her index finger, cocked the gun, and aimed at each person's head in turn. Bloo swallowed hard, but she never turned it on him. She ran her fingers through his hair affectionately.

"Speak now or forever hold your peace. Who the hell decided to leave my Bloo out in the middle of a storm when he could have died from blood loss? Why isn't Herriman's body on my rug? Whose fault is this?" she snarled and shot one member in the head. Brains plastered everywhere, from ceiling to walls to the floor. Limp, his body tumbled to the rug. Had he anything left in his system, he might have vomited again.

"P-please, C-Commander B-Berry, we didn't…he got in the way…" a woman protested. "He stopped us at the last split second…spare me…"

"Do you expect me to believe Bloo stopped you from killing him? First of all, why the hell did you _let _him? Second, even if he had, there's no excuse for splitting his face open. Surely you can tell the difference between a _rabbit, _your intended target, and my future _mate_. Unless you think I fuck rabbits!" she screamed, shooting her in the arm. The woman screamed, clutching it tightly.

"You're all dismissed. Consider yourself target practice. And if the person who slashed his face doesn't come forward immediately, I'll kill all your families tonight. Think of it as a Christmas bonus."

* * *


	16. Incredulous

Author's Note/Disclaimer: The last chapter officially received more reviews than I've gotten in a long time for this story (since chapter six, actually). Yay!

I don't own Foster's...and people, keep reviewing. Mmm-kay?

Chapter Sixteen: Incredulous

Bloo waited until everyone had vacated, either permanently or temporarily, before he reluctantly met Berry's eyes. They swept his face and a tender look entered momentarily. However, her mental wall guarded her expression closely after and she shoved him into the seat in front of her desk. Drumming her fingers together, she contemplated the picture within her desk for five minutes while Bloo squirmed uncomfortably. She always liked to put her subordinates on pins and needles- it reminded them of their place.

"Is it true?" she murmured so he had to strain to hear. Shutting the drawer quietly, she stiffened, wondering how on earth her mate could be marred so terribly so quickly. Regardless of the form he took, he'd retain the scar. No amount of make up or stitching could erase it. Still, now that she considered it further, she preferred this look. They both bore scars, physical and emotional, and it further proved her point- Mac would not want a disfigured imaginary friend. Once Bloo discovered this for himself, everything would run a lot smoother.

"I don't care what you said. Even _if _Mr. Herriman relies on humans, he doesn't deserve to die. No one does…" he said, but the words died on his lips. He wanted to be rebellious and might have been if it weren't for the fact he'd seen three DIE members perish by her hands. That alone induced unwavering terror and the knuckles gripping the chair were chalk white.

"Is that so, Bloo? So no matter what someone does, they don't deserve death? What about the people who left you in the snow while they ran like cowards? You could have died of blood loss. Can you sit here and tell me that they shouldn't be punished? One of them saw you jump in the way and yet, still cut you," she hissed, running a nail along his stitches. She dug it underneath one and smirked, relishing the way he twisted uncomfortably, but refused to remit a peep. At least some training had sunk in.

"It wasn't on purpose," he protested, though why he defended a dead man was beyond him. Maybe because the instant Berry came in contact with something, she blurred its lines beyond recognition. Nothing was innocent or accidental- the whole world was out to get her and any insult was seen not only as a nasty remark, but a threat to her personal well being. With a person like that running his known world, it made maintaining the lines of right and wrong very difficult indeed.

Pivoting, she flicked her glance onto the TVs in the corner of the room which displayed many of the corners and alleys in town. Despite her constant surveillance, none of them even glimpsed the side entrances and hidden passageways to Foster's. When Bloo had vanished into Foster's earlier that day, her sensors had been unable to pinpoint exactly where he was. She'd only been capable of tracking a human and imaginary friend in his immediate vicinity. His relation to the surrounding buildings aboveground was completely indiscernible.

Suddenly, she zoomed in on one and projected its black and white image onto a screen attached to the wall. Bloo's tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. There, glancing around the convenience store like a lost puppy searching for his master, was his creator. Unclenching the chair's bottom, his fingers itched to stroke his face and hold him close. Berry frowned, instantaneously distinguishing the expression on his face. She'd worn it many times before upon observing her own creator ascending the grand staircase of their mansion. She used to pretend they owned it and every day, when Virginia came back from school, she'd flit up the stairs, press Berry against her heaving bosom (which was always fuller and healthier than in real life), and they'd share a kiss.

Bloo stared blankly, uncertain if her waltzing around the room in a daze was normal behavior. She wrapped her arms around thin air and crooned the name "Virginia". Though he knew this to be her creator's name, he puzzled why she'd pretend to be in an embrace with the girl. Not to mention she had completely forgotten he was there. He sat utterly frozen, trying to decide if he could slip away unnoticed before Mac left or if it'd return her to reality.

Finally, she turned to Bloo and smiled sadly. All the mental walls disappeared and he realized this was the first time he'd seen her vulnerable and almost sympathetic. He shivered, rubbing his hands along his goosepimpled arms and checked out the window to ensure the sky wasn't falling.

"My scar may not be plastered across my cheek like you, but my choices have left their imprint. If it were not for my creator, I would not be cursed to think of her constantly and resent the hold she still wields. Her memory haunts me.

"Your choices have left a physical mark of your stupidity. Protecting others harms you as well, Bloo. Perhaps in your mind, Mr. Herriman does not deserve his just punishment, but you forget that it was his mentality and others like him that enabled my creator to hurt me this deeply. And if it can happen to me, it can happen to you.

"You let them in, now show them the door before your scar is the lightest of your wounds."

Bloo fumed, mentally discarding her words. She knelt by his side, ran her fingers through his hair, and kissed him lightly on the lips. He shuddered, bile rising in his throat. Against his wishes, he swallowed it, but he honestly thought he was going to be violently ill. He had to say, being kissed by an insane dictator hell bent on desiccating lifestyles and destroying dreams versus his beloved, affectionate, sweet creator was really no contest. That and try as she might, she'd have no sexual sway with him because, unfortunately for her, Bloo was gay.

"And, deep down, you know you attacked Herriman because you wanted to. Everyone has a mean streak. You might not want to admit it, but seeing his blood on your knuckles, hearing his screams punctuate the air, feeling his anguish at your hands satisfied you. You're not like them, Bloo. You're not human, you're imaginary. You're better than human. You don't have to obey their laws or listen to their reason. Don't you understand? If you want to maim, destroy, and wreck, no one will stop you.

"You've all ready taken your first steps. You're not the lily white Foster's boy any more. You're not Mac's lover boy, you're DIE's servant. You live to gratify us…and you enjoy every second of it.

"DIE has tainted you. You can't return to Foster's now. You're ours, whether you like it or not."

Bloo scoffed, yet his confidence ebbed away. What if she was right? What if Mac could just look at him and tell he wasn't on Foster's side any more? What if he wasn't 'good' any more? He'd never been entirely to begin with, but he'd always avoided the line between morality and ruthlessness. What if he'd only avoided it because he didn't want to unleash the monster that possessed him? What if he _was _that monster who beat Herriman and he liked it? What if the next time he saw Mac, he assaulted him too?

"You're mine, Bloo. Together, we will rule their doomed race."

* * *

"Lay him down on his bed," Madame Foster advised her granddaughter, who, despite her trembling knees at hefting such a weight, managed to maneuver into the room and lower him onto his mattress. Frankie gulped back another wave of sobs and glanced at her, eyes glazed and age never so apparent in the lines on her face, which had deepened. How could she have forgotten about the mental bound the two shared? The only reason she hadn't run into the foray after him was because Foster's didn't need two of its most wanted by DIE dead. Still, she was willing to bet she felt every punch, stab, and slash of his attackers. 

And what role did Bloo play? Why had he run so quickly? Then there was his gash…she couldn't fathom what would have happened if both Bloo and Herriman had died. She and Mac would have gone out of their minds.

Madame Foster tried to hop onto his bed, but the mental effect of Herriman's physical attack had drained her. Seeing the indomitable head of Foster's unable to scramble onto a four poster bed was heartrending. How could such a good day go so very wrong? How could so much happen in an hour? How could she have let her grandmother and her lover get hurt like this?

Because any way she sliced it, this was her fault. As she kissed his cheek, bit back a flood of tears, and scurried to the medicine cabinet for bandages, antiseptic solution, and anything else she might require, she began to blame herself. After all, who had heard those explosives go off and dart to the scene only to abandon him? Who had wondered about the noises and not investigated? Who had let this happen in the first place? Her.

Glaring at herself hatefully in the mirror, she resolved not to cry. Instead, a ball of self loathing threatened to choke her. She retrieved the equipment, packaged it neatly into a basket, and started off towards his room. This morning, already another lifetime it seemed, they'd lain together, his arms wrapped around her waist and her face buried in his chest. When he fell asleep, the transformer always turned him back into a rabbit…

Madame Foster was stroking his blood stained chest fur when Frankie re-entered. Afraid to interrupt a moment (since she'd inadvertently walked in on her granddaughter and imaginary friend previously), she hung back. Ancient fingers combed through the bruises, gore, and blade indents and she sighed. A single tear coursed down her wrinkled cheek and splashed onto the remnants of his collar. In all her years, Frankie had never seen her grandmother cry.

"Oh, my Funny Bunny…my beloved Herriman…what have they done to you?" she whispered, easing her finger up his tattered left ear. The tip was missing, presumed property of DIE for whatever reason. Though she disliked having to interject, it was either that or lose it completely. Seeing her cry and lament his fate was more than she could bear. Especially since this was all her fault.

Frankie unpacked her supplies and winced at his raspy breathing. She wasn't going to break down, not now. Now, she had a job to do. There was no point in crying anyway.

After finishing, she stood back, both to inspect her handiwork and because touching him brought the tears further to the surface. Perhaps she ought to leave them alone. It was one of the last things she desired, but if she looked, touched, or heard him, she'd bawl uncontrollably, like an infant. This was all her fault. She might as well have attacked him herself for her carelessness.

"Frankie, wait," she said just as her hand turned the knob. "We have to talk."

Leaning heavily against the door and swallowing painfully, she shook her head, eyes shut. What was there to discuss? How she'd failed Foster's, her lover, and her grandmother? How her stupidity had almost led to his death? If Bloo hadn't run in on time...

"This is _not _your fault. No matter what happened to lead him outside, _you _were not the one who attacked him. Don't beat yourself up, sweetie," she said, smiling sadly, and hopped unsteadily off to leave them alone. Since she shared the bond with Herriman, she knew who had ultimately triggered the attack, but didn't want to start a ruckus right now. She needed time to think and ponder their options, not to mention figure out if Mac had a right to the information and how it would impact him. As much as she wanted to remain here, the only thought when she looked at him was an immense, unquenchable loathing.

Once she left, Frankie at long last liberated her wails. She curled up next to her beloved Mr. Herriman, draped one of his mangled arms around her waist, and then shifted to press her face into his fur. Unbeknownst to either of them, the sun set as she cried herself to sleep in his arms.

* * *

Mac's finger trailed an oddly throbbing invisible line from under his right eye to his chin. It'd been bothering him since before Frankie and Madame Foster brought in Herriman and his "Bloo is near" sense had been pulsating as well. In fact, the afternoon had been a myriad of strange experiences, all revolving around his imaginary friend. Desire, blood lust, confusion, phantom pain; followed by dizziness, freezing, the heart stopping moment when he nearly died, a flood of warmth, and now, nothing. 

Madame Foster hobbled into the living room, where he sat in the easy chair while Wilt and Eduardo half cuddled, half hugged on the couch. Ed wasn't exactly private about their relationship, much to Wilt's embarrassment. Fortunately, Mac was too deep in thought to notice either. In fact, he didn't even hear her sigh; see her contemplate whether or not to tell him, and then pass on.

"Bloo…" he whispered. "Bloo, where are you?"

* * *


	17. Solitary Confinement

Chapter Seventeen: Solitary Confinement

"I see now that Mac has too much of an influence over you," she said, high heeled boots clacking together. Bloo, once again hot glued to the wall in a straitjacket, watched loathsomely. He longed to spit in her face, but thanks to the facemask, he could speak but do little else. Fury shook his jacket and body; how he hated her. Nonetheless, whenever she turned her beady eyes upon his face, he froze. Every cell in his body might yearn for his release and her torture, but he wasn't foolish enough to admit it, not when she'd killed imaginary friends before his eyes. The memory induced a shudder.

"We shall have to work on that," she continued as though he'd received a poor mark in school and she was merely suggesting he study. Somehow, he doubted her next sentence would contain (a), anything he wanted to hear and (b), anything vaguely resembling sanity. Her moods fluctuated, murderous intent entering oftentimes, and he had the sinking feeling she was about to assign him to a task he'd rather slit his wrists than accomplish. And there were very few things Blooregard Q. Kazoo would kill himself over. Nothing, short of ordering him to assassinate Mac.

The stump of Herriman's ear one of the members had tucked away into his pocket as a keepsake lay on the floor, its former owner staring open eyed at the ceiling. Bloo glanced at him, swallowed hard, and willed himself to pretend the imaginary friends and people were sleeping. Lying to himself was infinitely preferable to recognizing she'd murdered them in cold blood and he'd watched helplessly. Still, even the stump reminded him he wasn't entirely Foster's material anymore. He hadn't cut it off as a souvenir like that sick bastard had, but he'd been an accomplice.

"It _is _your fault that fucking rabbit still lives," Berry snarled, rounding on him. He cringed, but before he could snap a retort, she glued his mouthpiece shut. Muffled protests echoed, but nothing discernible reached her ears. Another few seconds later, she'd glued shut his nose hole too, leaving only the tiniest bit open. Bloo continued to declaim, then stopped, unable to breathe. Wide eyed in terror, he whimpered piteously and she waggled an admonishing finger.

She ran her finger over the still hot glue, stifled a wince, and then rubbed her nail down his stitches. He squirmed as the adhesion substance touched the hard plastic and screamed when a drop slipped beyond the barriers. It hardly helped the mask had begun to collapse and steaming plastic was leaning in, about to press against his skin. It was inches away and he was certain she'd leave it there, let it stick permanently to his skin, when she ripped it off. Cool air rushed onto his broiling face and he gulped oxygen greedily, stopping when she looked at him disapprovingly. Nonetheless, he found a way to swallow large quantities and marvel at its live giving properties.

"My disappointment hurts, Bloo. Don't fail me again. You need more training than a few hours can provide. Until you can perform a task to my satisfaction, you are delegated to solitary confinement."

"For…how long?" Bloo murmured, unable to stop himself.

"For however long it takes until you see things my way."

* * *

Bloo stared at the same, dull white wall he'd contemplated for nearly two weeks now. Other than periodic feeding, removal for toiletry purposes, and Berry addressing him and trying to force him to see things her way, he'd been completely alone. The hand that pushed food through a slot on an electronically locked belonged to a member instructed never to speak to him, regardless of how tempting the prospect or how he ranted. Gripping his 'knees' with shaking arms, he wondered if he truly had gone mad in here.

The only thought that kept him sane was contacting Mac. Unfortunately, until he understood the fundamentals of their mental bond, his efforts went awry. So far, in the past two days, he thought he might have the glimmer of a prospect. If he clenched his eyes shut, flung out his mental senses, he swore he sensed him. Today, he'd gotten closer than before, to the point where he felt intelligence just out of reach of his mental arm. If he extended it enough, maybe his 'fingertips' could brush his consciousness. Starving, faced with the prospect of another less than satisfying meal, Mac was all he had.

_Please…I'll do anything to feel him again…_he thought, emptying himself of any unwitting blocks or, indeed, the pride that normally prevented him from bonding properly. He was like a battered climber, scrambling onto the outcrops by putting one bloody hand after the other. The mountain's top loomed portentously overhead and shone like a homing beacon. One last desperate snatch, a grope in the darkness, and he plummeted.

Damn it, he thought he'd done it that time. He'd been inches, no, centimeters from hearing his creator's voice again, albeit telepathically, and his chance tumbled into an abyss. Frustration, self anger, and misery encircled him like a vulture; he whimpered, burying his face in his hands. Hot tears coursed down and he wept selfishly, ineffably irritated with himself and his utter inability to accomplish what Madame Foster and Mr. Herriman had performed countless times. What made Mac and him so different? Why couldn't he do something as goddamn stupid as opening his mind to him?

_ Bloo? _ Mac's voice murmured, faint at first, but growing in strength. Bewildered, Bloo searched the tiny, white padded room, but imaginary friends couldn't imagine creators, no matter how badly they desired it. Yet if he wasn't physically talking, then what was going on? Could it be? Could he finally have forged the telepathic bond between creator and creation? A surge of happiness burst through the upset like a dam and he grinned widely.

_Mac? MAC! _he cried, trembling either out of excitement, nerves, hunger, or a combination of the three. Were the connection powerful enough, Bloo might have noticed the wince when his voice literally exploded in his head. Nonetheless, relief flooded both (since feelings were, like before, shared, but now much more easily identified and stronger because he'd deepened it). Nonetheless, regardless of the other emotions floating freely between the two (including Bloo's hunger pangs, his resentment towards Berry and DIE, guilt over Herriman's condition, loneliness, doubting Mac's love for him, and self blame versus Mac's anxiety, exhaustion, and weariness); they managed to keep their heads straight. At least, Mac tried, but he was having a hard time fighting against the flood of emotions Bloo simultaneously experienced.

_…Bloo? What's going on? And how on earth do you manage to deal with all that at once? You're suffocating me. I mean, I had a vague sense, but not like this…_ He was rambling, but they hadn't yet learned how to keep private thoughts private and only send what they wanted, so everything reached everyone. Still, Bloo wasn't troubled or complaining. He hadn't heard his creator's voice in weeks, much less had him fill his mind like this. He felt complete, the other half of his soul within his grasp finally.

Outside, if he craned his head and squatted by the hand opening, he could hear an argument brewing. He nudged the crack open to see a towheaded teenager wearing a pink transformer snapping furiously at one of Berry's subordinates, one of the few who reported directly to her. Those sickening pink boots he knew intimately halted at his mountain boots and the resounding crack as she slapped him across the face echoed in the empty corridor. Anyone meandering casually in the hall soon took off as if Cerberus himself pursued them. Their footsteps faded away quickly.

"Do you have a problem with my leadership, _child_?" she sneered, hoisting him by his lapel and slamming him against the wall. Bendy smirked, thin, brittle, bony figures squeezing her wrists. He increased the pressure until, emitting a shriek, Berry released him. Bendy slid, then stopped, brushing himself off noncommittally. His cunning brown eyes scanned the perimeter to see who would come to his aid. No one dared.

_Bloo_?

Flashing her a rather nasty smile, he replied, "As a matter of fact, I do. You let your heart dictate what should have been an easy decision. Bloo failed you- you should have killed him for that. You've killed others for less."

Bloo gulped, praying neither heard. Berry, enraged at the mere suggestion, whipped out a gun before either blinked. She pointed it at first at his crotch, stomach, heart, and finally, at his head. Meanwhile, her other hand idly keyed Bloo's door's unlocking in ten minutes. He lifted his head, hardly believing his luck. Why was she doing this? Especially after Bendy challenged her like that?

"And if you don't watch your mouth, cadet, I will kill _you. _Bloo has my utmost trust," she lied, inwardly questioning his integrity. However, she couldn't afford another slip up, not when morale was obviously low. Besides, two weeks in solitary confinement ought to have convinced him who the real ringleader was. He ought to be capable of a patrol around town. And if he was and did well, she'd reward him.

It was on the tip of his tongue to retort, but the gun silenced any objections. Glaring, retreating without turning his back on her, he left. Berry watched, eyes narrowed disdainfully. Bloo was so caught up, he disregarded Mac until he bellowed in his head. Then, he was forced to listen, doubled over in pain.

_BLOO! ARE YOU IGNORING ME? BLOO_! he yelped and Bloo whimpered, eyes tearing. Outside, the pink boots stopped and he swallowed hard, wondering what she had in store for him. He wished Mac would shut up and realize he wasn't consciously overlooking him. He just had a serial killer lurking on the other side of his door. Suddenly, the tiny room felt a hell of a lot safer.

_…ow…Mac, stop…_ he pleaded. _Just hold on for a few minutes…that fucking **hurts**… _

The door zoomed open and Berry flung a pink transformer belt at Bloo's 'feet'. Unnerved, he hastened to fix it around his middle, where it immediately latched on, regardless of the fact he lacked hips. The familiar pinching sensation gripped him until he had an actual waist to support the belt. Gritting his teeth, he nudged the knob in the middle until it rested on his human form, which was the same regardless of which belt he used. Like always, burning, like flesh oozing into a new form, accompanied his shapeshift, but because he'd grown accustomed to it, the pain was minute.

"You are to patrol the town and report back to me in two hours. That belt will tell me if you have located an imaginary friend and your task is then to bring them to me. If you fail, let's just say your scar will be the least of your worries."

_Mac? Can you meet me by the convenience store in five minutes? Please…I miss you so badly…_ he whispered. He licked his chapped lips, marched out of his room and down the stairs for the first time in days, and shuddered at Berry's dominating eyes scrutinizing his exit. Keeping his head down, he ignored any nasty comments, hugged himself, and glared stoically at the floor. Mac hadn't replied yet.

_Bloo, what's going on? Where have you been these last few days? Why do I keep getting all these **feelings **from you that I shouldn't? Where were you when Mr. Herriman was attacked? Are you part of DIE?_ he inquired, the questions bursting out. Bloo swore profusely, startling several fledgling imaginary friends, who huddled together against the madman. He flipped them off.

_Just shut up and meet me there._ he snapped, uncharacteristically cold. _I can't tell you anything_.

With that, he wedged a mental wall between the two and headed off to see his creator.

* * *

Mac buried his hands in his pockets, paced back and forth, and pounded the already compact snow beneath his rubber boots. Annoyed, he checked his watch and scoffed. So much for meeting him here. He hadn't liked the tone of mental voice his creation had taken with him, but the emotions he'd sensed underlying their conversation worried him more than anything else. If Bloo wasn't here soon, something might have happened to him. His stomach churned.

He pivoted, ready to leave, when a black _thing _skittered behind him, slipped on the ice, and used him to prop himself back up. Irritated, Mac opened his mouth to snap that he wasn't railing when somber, anguished blue eyes gazed deeply into his. The serious expression on his face and the scar might not match his memory of him, but he'd know those eyes anywhere. Yet the volumes of unspoken, tumultuous grief unsettled him. This was his imaginary friend and lover, yes, but not the one he'd last met.

"Mac…" Bloo breathed, awestruck by his good luck and the fact he actually had his arms wrapped around his waist. Mac's hand flew to his scar to trace its length when Bloo narrowed the distance between the two and kissed him desperately. This was not a "it's been a long time", but "I'm going to die in a few hours" type of kiss. Once again, Mac was unnerved.

So disturbed was he that he couldn't do anything else than stare blankly. Bloo looked like he was falling apart at the seams, particularly thanks to the aberration that he found himself fingering. Berry had removed the stitches, but it didn't prevent the upraised skin from sticking out oddly. The reaction was instantaneous- he shoved him away and tied his hood over to hide his face. With his black attire, he blended into the night perfectly.

"Don't _touch _me," he spat, recoiling like a wounded animal. Coming from someone who had five seconds ago pressed himself against him, his behavior was highly erratic. Mac once again stared, uncertain what to do. All he'd done was examine the scar, nothing more.

"Who did this to you?" Mac whispered, but he meant more than the superficial injuries. Wave after wave of anguish cascaded out through their bond and the blue haired imaginary friend sniffled. A few uncomfortable moments passed, followed by him shifting closer, unable to resist his proximity. He flung his arms around his neck and sobbed, his mood swings completely unpredictable. Mac awkwardly hugged him back.

"Mac…don't hate me…" he whispered, kissing his neck. "Tell me you love me."

Shades of the nightmare they'd unwittingly shared struck the teenager and he shuddered, wondering what the dream's impact had been on him. Tentatively, Mac's trembling fingers stroked his uninjured cheek and Bloo lifted his own to hold it. Haunted azure eyes swam with tears. Guilt swept through the anguish, but he didn't understand why. He was so confused, bewildered by his desperation to keep him nearby but shoving him away at the same time.

"I love you, Bloo…" he replied, frowning. "But why are you crying? What's going on? Who gave you that scar? Who's hurt you?"

Bloo froze, shoving him away again. Mac skidded over the icy patch and barely stopped himself from falling down. Shocked and dismayed, he watched as Bloo exploded, nearly slipping himself.

"It's none of your damn business! It's my fault, okay? It's my own fucking fault! I took too many chances and I got fucked over, okay? I…I hurt him…" he trailed off, glancing away.

"Hurt who?" he murmured, befuddled and haunted by his odd outbursts. "You're talking in riddles."

"Forget it, Mac! Forget me! I shouldn't have come here! Fuck it! I don't need your help to get myself killed!" he snapped, shoving him into a pile of garbage. Wasting no time, he took off, leaving Mac completely confused and smelling in an alleyway.

* * *


	18. Passion

Author's Note: So tired...I put this up a few hours early, but I won't do that again next week.

At any rate, enjoy. Foster's Home does not belong to me.

Chapter Eighteen: Passion

Retrieving a flashlight, Mac trailed Bloo until he found the real thing. He'd never heard his imaginary friend at the breaking point, and upon touching his cheeks, he discovered he was crying as well. Certainly, he was not about to let him walk away that easily. Dogmatic, he searched until he found him.

* * *

Sniffling, he rubbed his nose obstinately and shook his head. God, why was he so stupid? Berry might not be able to tell _which _human he'd met, but she was smart enough to figure it out. And if he was going to be killed for seeing Mac, why the hell hadn't he done anything worthwhile to get himself killed for? All he'd done was shove him away and explain nothing.

Or maybe Berry wouldn't kill him. Maybe she'd hunt Mac and kill _him _instead. After all, she'd told him it was her creator's death that drove her mad. If she eliminated Mac, Bloo would have nothing left. She could murder him, fling Bloo into solitary confinement again, and in a week, he'd be stark raving like her. Then he'd finish what he'd started with Mr. Herriman…

How could he want him now? He'd aided and abetted in an attempted murder, only stopped by flinging himself in the blade's way. Not to mention he'd questioned his loyalty and let himself be swayed by Berry's teachings. He'd believed her over his beloved creator…what a fool. Tears obliterated his vision and he choked, weakly perceiving someone laying a hand on his shoulder and whispering his name.

Innately, he whirled around, elbowing them in the stomach. A strangled cry and, horrified, he realized he'd struck Mac. Fortunately, the still bemused boy, stomach tender, landed in a snow bank. Ashen, Berry's words drifted back- maybe he really wouldn't want him now. After all, he'd offered him comfort and he'd assaulted him. Every time he approached him, he shoved him away. Who would want a partner like him? He was worthless, DIE's pawn.

Mac, rising ungainly to his feet sans aid, stared at his creation's face. Never had he seen him so defeated. Whoever responsible beat him down mercilessly. Dusting himself off, he cautiously laid a hand on his shoulder. He was well aware every time he reached out, it was met by hostility, but this was Bloo, his world, and if the sky was falling, he was going to try to push it back up.

"I'm not going to let you walk out on me, not after vanishing for two weeks," he said sternly, blinking when Bloo lifted his hand off only to kiss it. What was this, the Twilight Zone? Since when did he act the gentlemen? Then again, considering everything else, maybe he ought to count his blessings he hadn't flung it aside and pushed him into another trash pile.

Swallowing hard, glancing away, Bloo murmured, "Don't you get it, Mac? I'm not yours anymore. I'm not Foster's. I'm with DIE. I'm…their puppet.

"_I'm_ the one who hurt Mr. Herriman. _I _lured him out of Foster's to be jumped. _I _helped them. If I hadn't gotten a conscience attack, he would have died and it would have been all my fault. That scar you keep fingering isn't a memento of bravery, but how far I've fallen.

"How could you want me now? I'm…I almost…" he trailed off, glancing away. Mac's knuckles whitened and his eyes widened, but he couldn't reply. Bloo, who'd clutched his hand tightly before, released it, and then, examining his creators' face, fled.

Mac blinked blankly, but no sooner had Bloo sped out of sight than Mac's feet pounded on the pavement to catch up. He wanted answers and his confession produced more questions. His mind spun dazedly; meanwhile, Bloo evaded him and the various scattered DIE members. He didn't want to face him, but returning to Berry hardly pleased him either. Unfortunately, about five minutes into the chase, Bloo ran headlong into a teenage girl clad in black, the sweatshirt baring DIE's initials.

Overhead loomed DIE headquarters and the blue skinned imaginary friend winced. Brilliant. Not only had he unintentionally screwed up, but he sensed Mac lingering close by. If Berry discovered he'd seen his creator to forgo patrol, she'd assassinate Mac while her guards restrained her new pet. How could he have been so stupid, to jump from the pan straight into the fire? Helplessly, he glanced at the shadows where Mac hid. These were dangerous games to play, too dangerous.

"_You _were supposed to report an hour ago, newbie filth," the girl snarled, prodding him in the back with her pistol. She nodded at two cohorts, waving their guns like toys. One squeezed the trigger maliciously; a bullet flew out, precariously close to Bloo's head. The next shot, aimed in the shadows, brought a sharp intake of breath and, then, nothing. The color drained from Bloo's face, but, before he pondered anything else, the girl directed him back to hell, also known as DIE.

* * *

Swallowing hard, Mac thanked his lucky stars that bullet nicked the cardboard box next to him. If it'd landed a centimeter to the right, it would have embedded itself in his skull. He shuddered, hugging himself. Whatever scientific law dictated bad guys always had bad aim saved his life. Either that, or whoever it was shot blindly to see if they got anyone. Neither prospect terribly appealed to him.

He watched until the two figures holding Bloo at gunpoint strode inside. There was no reason to remain in the hopes he'd come out. Reticent, he dashed back to Foster's to inform them of the breaking news.

* * *

Frankie growled, pacing back and forth. Occasionally, she'd halt, mutter darkly, and then renew her agitated strides. Since Bloo's capture, the modified rules mandated no 'visits' to the surface after dark. Today being her day to check imaginary and humans' emissions, she'd discovered his leaving nearly an hour ago. Considering Bloo's unknown condition and her affection for the two, she'd grown increasingly concerned. When the door creaked open, she yanked him down the stairs and read him the riot act.

"Where did you think you were going?" she snapped. "Are you insane? What did I tell you about heading out after dark? You could have been captured, or, worse, shot on sight. What did you think you were doing?"

Mac, disoriented from her treatment, not to mention the night's events whirling, stared blankly. What on earth did rules have to do with anything? Yes, they were there for a reason and dimly, he realized he'd broken one, but it wasn't that big a deal. She certainly could have skipped ranting and raving like he'd committed a cardinal sin. Jeez, talk about incorporating part of who you hung out with.

"DIE's patrolling the city at night or have you forgotten? You could have met one of them and-" she snapped, but he interjected.

"I did-"

"You see? I warned you. You're lucky you escaped with your life, you know that? That's it, no venturing above the surface for you for a week, mister. And if I see you disobeyed me again, I'll-" she hissed, prodding him in the chest. Mac glared, wishing she'd at least give him the opportunity to speak. However, Madame Foster's cane striking the counter tiles impeded her. She pivoted, facing her grandmother and the accompanying hops, no longer as energetic. The lame leading the limping.

Madame Foster rapped her granddaughter on the shin lightly and turned to Mac to smile weakly. His lips twisted in a semblance of a smile, but nothing more. Still uneasy, he reluctantly settled into a chair. She hefted herself into the one across, Herriman adjacent, and Frankie, reluctantly, sat so stiffly she resembled a statue. She muttered uncouthly, too low for anyone but Herriman to catch.

"I think the boy has something important to say," Madame Foster said, "and you're not letting him get it out."

"Thanks, Madame Foster," he replied, feebly smiling gratefully. She inclined her head and shot Frankie a look as if daring her to interrupt. It seemed she'd overheard their conversation.

"I met Bloo outside-"

"Is he okay?" Frankie interrupted, earning disapproving looks. Meekly, she eyed the table and Mac anticipated Mr. Herriman laying a placating paw atop her hand. Yet he offered her no comfort or affection, which he found odd. He'd grown so accustomed to these displays of bizarre affection, he'd learned to pinpoint when they'd happen. Yet since Mr. Herriman's attack, he'd been rather aloof, particularly to Frankie.

"No," he said, frowning. "He's not. He was acting really strange…he kept pushing me away and then begging my forgiveness for something."

Straining his memory, he recalled and glanced guiltily at Mr. Herriman, then the two Fosters. He sensed the instant he uttered these words, Frankie would erupt, Madame Foster would be torn between doing the same and calming her, and the imaginary rabbit would simply nod dejectedly. Bearing the bearer of bad news was a horrid task, regardless of the messenger. At least Bloo wasn't here to confess…that was the worst scenario he could imagine.

"He…he said that…" he winced, readying himself. "He said he helped hurt Mr. Herriman."

From the explosion out of Frankie's mouth, one might have thought a volcano blew. Indeed, the twenty-nine year old resembled one, her crimson hair flashing like her jade eyes. Words, a few Mac had never heard before, issued forth and the teenager marveled at her explicit vocabulary. He wondered whether he ought to clap his hands over his ears or listen, awestruck. Wilt and Eduardo, in their habitual place, fled like banshees chased them. Mac didn't blame them- it was bad enough to listen to it, worse to witness.

Honestly, he fully expected Madame Foster or, in the very least, Mr. Herriman to quiet her rage. Then again, the imaginary rabbit had been rather brusque to Frankie lately and only speaking when absolutely necessary. The customary affectionate gestures ceased entirely and if she initiated one, he jerked away as if burned. For instance, she grabbed his arm to display the cuts and bruises she now blamed on Bloo and he wrenched it away. An incredibly hurt look removed the fury and, abashed, she sat back down.

Madame Foster scrutinized Mac; her emerald eyes searched every inch, but whatever she sought, she found naught. Clasping her hands over her cane, she glanced querulously at Herriman, haughtily folding his arms across his chest. Unfortunately still tender, he winced. Frankie inherently laid a hand on his shoulder, but withdrew it before he slapped it away.

"You do realize, of course," she said, speaking not only to Mac, but to Frankie and Herriman as well, "that there are two sides to every story? Sometimes, the 'what' isn't as important as the 'why'. Yes, what he did might have been heinous, but you act like he had a choice. Did he? Can you honestly tell me that he's always been a ruthless, blood thirsty imaginary friend who relishes attacking others? Did you imagine him that way, Mac?"

Yet she wasn't finished with Frankie and Herriman. "And you two, do you think blaming yourself endlessly will miraculously heal the future? Or that because a group of imaginaries with weapons and malicious intent beat you while you were down, you're a weak, pathetic creature who isn't capable of your protecting loved ones? If you two don't stop feeling sorry for yourselves, let's just say this cane won't stay on the ground too long."

Gently, as though she hadn't moments ago threatened to whack her granddaughter and imaginary friend senseless, she spoke to Mac again. Mr. Herriman tentatively held Frankie's hand; she smiled softly and squeezed his lightly. Madame Foster who, for all the world, ignored them when they behaved like this normally, smiled and prodded Herriman gently in the ribs in case he had any quandaries about holding Frankie's hand.

"Do you know where Bloo is right now?" she murmured and he hung his head. He knew he was with DIE, but not exactly where. Thankfully, their mental bond meant he knew he wasn't dead and the bullet had missed, but it didn't slow his heart's pitter-patter. In his lap, he clenched his fists. There had to be something. He couldn't continue here and let them walk all over him.

"Can't we do anything? I can't stay here and do nothing while my…my…" His everything.

"…while Bloo is their slave," he finished. "Don't we have people to take him out? Can't someone give her a new playtoy? It's been two weeks and he's nearly insane!"

His blood boiled at the thought. If Bloo lingered in DIE's service, he would definitely lose it. Surely Foster's could help. They'd never mentioned rescuing anyone, but it had to be possible. They wouldn't let him down like this. They wouldn't stand by and let Bloo get beaten down by Berry until he became a monster like her. They couldn't.

Unconsciously, he'd placed his hopes in Foster's like Goo had. Foster's had saved him once, they could do it again. All those other imaginary deaths and creators were nothing. They didn't apply. Frankie and Madame Foster _cared _about him and Bloo, they wouldn't dare disappoint.

Madame Foster shook her head sadly and indicated her, the passing Wilt, and Mr. Herriman. "Don't you think if we _could _do something, we would have already? We're not ready yet."

Blood pounding, he leapt to his feet. His heart thundered and his fists, already clenched, tightened painfully. Goo was right. They weren't ever going to help. All they knew was cowardice, sitting idlywhile imaginaries and creators died. Well, enough was enough. Maybe they weren't, but he was going to do something. He couldn't lay back and hope that the next time they aimed at Bloo, they missed.

"What's the point of fighting them if you never _do _anything?" Mac snarled, pointing his finger accusingly. "Playing dead doesn't do anything, in case you noticed!

"Since you started living underground, has anything improved? Did you save lives by hiding out with the rocks? Does it make you happy to see creators and creations torn apart while you twiddle your thumbs? How can you tell me you're not ready yet when you've had thirty damn years to prepare!"

Tugging his coat off the rack, he shoved it on hastily, mis-buttoning in his rush. Fingers fumbled to shove the hood over his eyes and immediately reformed into fists. Chestnut eyes flashed treacherously. They'd taken everything else away; his mother, brother (he'd never known his father), and now, Foster's was going to lay low while they took the last creature who mattered the most to him? They were going to do jack when he was in pain? Who the hell did they think they were?

"You guys want to chew the fat and listen to the gunshots, be my guest. I'm going out and _doing _something," he snapped, tying the strings on his hood.

"Like getting yourself killed?" Frankie replied sardonically. "Because that's what it sounds like to me."

"It beats hanging around here all day and waiting for nothing!" he retorted, stomping up the steps. "I'm sick of waiting. I'm sick of feeling Bloo in my head and knowing there's nothing I can do to stop the pain. I'm sick of letting DIE take everything and everyone I care about.

"At least if I go down, I go down fighting," he snapped, slamming the door.

Frankie sighed, rubbing her temples. "And a load of good you'll be to Bloo, dead."

* * *


	19. Futile

Chapter Nineteen: Futile

Goo hugged herself, lay back, and observed the moon. The cold concrete chilled her back, but like everything, she'd conditioned herself to its effects. Only her body's slight shivers indicated her discomfort. However, since she was habitually freezing, even in the summer, she cared little. In the winter, she shivered outwardly, but during the warmer seasons, the cold settled into her bones and soul. Despite her words, her rallying cries, her army was behind her and not _with _her. They would listen to her, but she hardly considered them friends. All she was in their eyes was a figurehead; someone to agree wholeheartedly with, but not care about. Thus, she remained terribly alone all year long.

A shadow stood over her and, judging by its all black outfit, it had to be a DIE member. Why would they want _her_? She had nothing. No imaginary friends, no ties to Foster's, nothing but pathetic speeches. Oh, well, if they were here, let them take her in fighting. She was going to give them hell.

"Hi…" the person said and she bolted up, recognizing the voice. Smirking, she watched as he threw back his hood and weary brown eyes met hers. The smirk broadened, because she also recognized the look. Desolate, disillusioned, he came to her as his last hopes in Foster's dwindled. She was tempted to laugh, but the pain etched in his face squelched it.

"You returned," she replied simply and gestured towards the bridge and mud beneath. Mac extracted the flashlight from his right pocket and illuminated the murky depths. Crushed soda cans lined the river's bottom along with broken transformers and what he strongly suspected were equally broken imaginary friends and humans immersed in the bottom. His stomach flip-flopped.

"You like this, Mac? This is my home. This is what DIE reduced me to," she continued, unable to keep her voice steady. It wavered furiously, evident in her body's renewed shudders. Mac's hands flew to his jacket's buttons; he might freeze, but at least she'd be warm. She saw this and frowned, placing a hand on his to stop him.

"Don't bother. Now, I don't suppose you're here for polite banter, are you?" she joked weakly, well aware that, unless he'd recently lost all sense, he couldn't be here for that. His lips twisted like they'd like to smile, but lost the ability. Whenever they decided she was their last resort, humor dissipated.

Mac shook his head rigidly and opened his mouth to unload, but she held up a hand and pointed into the river. An imaginary friend's body, bloated and bullet riddled, floated to the surface. In life, verdant green leaves topped her bird-like head, but the leaves had all wilted and dropped off. Her beak was now grey and resembling mush in constitution. Horrified, he retreated and stared at her. Why on earth would she show him something like that?

"Does Foster's like that, Mac? Do they know that DIE dumps dead imaginaries and humans in the river because they think it'll absolve them? Do they care that this imaginary probably meant something to someone? Remember what I told you before- all it takes for evil to triumph is for good men to sit and do nothing. Evil _is _triumphing and it's because Foster's and everyone around is too scared to take a stand," she said, steering him back towards the waterfront so he had no choice but to stare at Coco's corpse. Bile rose in his throat.

"Is that what they want? Are they not acting because they like death and secretly help DIE?" she hissed. "Answer me. Isn't their inaction making them as bad as DIE?"

Stomach lurching, he shoved her away so he didn't have to look any longer. He hadn't expected her to immediately agree to help him, though it might have been useful. Still, her words and the corpse had their desired impact. Foster's let imaginary friends like Coco, who befriended Eduardo, Wilt, and others, fall by the waste side. His fury surged, fists balled, and he glared heatedly. She smirked back, anticipating his fury. It happened every time someone came in contact with the truth, though she rarely had such a good example of Foster's fallacy.

"I don't give a damn," he retorted, folding his arms across his chest. "Can you help me or not? I'm not in the mood for a lecture."

Flicking a pebble into the stream, she watched it drift aimlessly, buoyed by the current, shoved and shifted against its will. The current was its master, dictating where and when it rested. If it had any will of its own, it was powerless to exercise it against the sheer recklessness of the area it inhabited. A thin smile crossed her face- DIE was that stream in real life and everyone else a pebble in the rapids. Forever subjugated to weathering, people and imaginary friends disintegrated, either literally or mentally by the pressure. They might migrate towards other weathered particles, but they were never quite the same substance anymore.

"It depends. What are you asking of me?" she replied, folding her arms under her small chest.

"What miracle would you like me to perform?"

Mac scowled, grasping the innate sarcasm. She glared back at him and, if he weren't already aggravated, her shrug would have pointed him that way. Glowering at the water, he struggled for a diplomatic way to express himself. There _had _to be a solution that kept Bloo alive for rescue. Someone out there had to be willing to put his life on the line to help him…after all, _he _was. He was willing to throw everything away to protect his beloved. The problem was, others felt the way about their loved ones, but weren't about to sacrifice themselves for someone they didn't personally know.

"Help me save Bloo from DIE's clutches," he replied. "You have all those people behind you- maybe you can gather them into an army and defeat DIE."

She laughed uproariously, humorlessly, and fell to the bridge's hard steel to pound her fists against it. Mac stared blankly, watching her clutch her stomach in howls. It took him a little while to figure out that she was both laughing…and crying. In a few moments, however, she recollected her composure, wiped her eyes, and eyed him. The pain in his eyes was reflected in hers.

"Are you _insane_? Well, probably, but we're all a little mad here. Mac, my followers might follow me to the death, from hell and back, but we're not strong enough on our own. And we're _especially _not going to risk our necks for one imaginary friend, considering he's DIE's new pet," she replied seriously, laying a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off, eyes blazing.

"Then I'll just do it myself," he retorted, shuffling away. She darted in front, holding both arms out.

"That's suicidal. And believe me; I know suicidal plans when I see them. I make them.

"If we were ever going to challenge DIE, we'd need more than ourselves, we'd need a tactician like, and I really hate to say this, Eleanor Foster. I want action, I want to do something, but I want it to have an impact. I've realized that in the past few weeks. What's the point of catapulting yourself against the building if people only complain about the smell afterwards?

"If we're going to get anywhere, we need Foster's," she said, sighing heavily.

Mac, whose hopes were now dashed below the river bottom, glared. No one was powerful enough on their own. No one could or would help. No one gave a damn about Bloo but him. They were all out to save their own skins and the few people and imaginaries they had left. They weren't willing to give anything up to seek retribution. They sickened him, all of them.

"I don't need your help. I'll rescue him myself," he snarled, stomping off. This time, she let him walk off. Let him realize the truth of the matter, that no one man could stop this rampage. Let him understand that nothing here had a simple solution and, in real life, the good guys didn't always win. Sometimes, they lost horribly and the bad guys showed up to kick dirt in their open wounds.

"Suicidal," she called back, but he ignored her.

* * *

Frankie sighed, furious with Mac but worried all the same. Madame Foster, after assuring her he wouldn't do anything stupid and lethal, went to bed. The microwave clock's red numbers read one thirty a.m., then ticked to one thirty one. This wasn't the first night she'd spent staring at the infernal thing and she sincerely doubted it'd be the last. Sometimes, Mr. Herriman would join her and eventually coax her to bed. Nowadays, though, it was her, the clock, and dead silence. Mac was like a son to her; right now, a disrespectful, angry son, but one nonetheless. She couldn't help worrying.

Hop, limp, hop. She pretended not to hear him and rested her head on the table. Her eyelids drooped, but she knew better than to rest her eyes. The last time she had, she'd passed out and didn't awake until Madame Foster shook her shoulders at seven in the morning. Worse came to worst, she'd make herself a pot of coffee, down it all in one sitting, and stay there until he came back. Because there was no chance in hell she was leaving this table until he returned. None at all.

"Miss Frances?" he inquired lightly and she stiffened immediately. He almost never called her that anymore. Then again, they hadn't held an actual conversation in about two weeks. She dragged her chair away, both to give him more room to slide in and to distance herself.

"Mr. Herriman," she said curtly, standing up to prepare caffeine. He moved to her side to help, but she shoved his arm away. She was well versed in the art of pouring beans into the maker, thanks. Besides, regardless of what Madame Foster had said, she was still peeved. So he thought he couldn't protect her and that's why he was acting like such a baby? She hadn't heard an apology, either.

"I…I suppose you're waiting for Master Mac?" he inquired meekly and she glared reproachfully. Setting the machine on, she settled back into her chair and he in the one adjacent. He rested his paws on the table and she stared, temporarily distracted from her anger with him to notice he wasn't wearing gloves.

"No, the Easter Bunny," she shot back, but she couldn't hide a smirk. "And it looks like he's early this year."

The smirk blossomed into a smile and she gently took his paw into her hand. Try as she might, she couldn't stay too angry with him. Besides, given the rate imaginaries and creators were vanishing lately, not to mention his attack, she might lose him before she had the chance to make up. He placed his other paw around her hand and returned her smile.

"Frankie, I'm sorry for the way I've acted," he murmured, lifting his paw to caress her face with the furry back. "I thought you would find me weak and unworthy of your affections. After all…"

"A group of assholes, including Bloo (who I'm going to strangle next time I see him), beat the crap out of you," she replied, pecking him on the cheek. "I know, I know. And I got distracted by a mini explosive he threw."

"Can you forgive me?" he murmured and she beamed at him.

"Already done."

They shared a kiss and she rested her head against his chest. He winced, directing her away from the missing patches of fur. He cradled her waist and the two waited until three a.m., when a dispirited Mac trudged back in to pass out in his room.

* * *

Three DIE members toting pistols shoved Bloo back into solitary confinement. After a three hours grilling followed by verbal and physical abuse, she told him she'd deal with him later and ordered her helpers to bind him in a straitjacket. He fought valiantly, but fruitlessly. Now, unable to move his arms or legs, he stared sullenly at the white, padded walls. God, he hated this room. Correction, he hated this whole damn building, everyone in it, and anyone lingering outside. He wished they'd all die.

_Mac…where are you now? Mac…I love you… _he sent, but his creator was either asleep or not responding. _I miss you… _

Still nothing. He banged his head against the pads, clenched his eyes shut, and tears flowed, unencumbered, down his cheeks. This wouldn't be the first time he cried himself to sleep and it wouldn't be the last.

* * *


	20. Brink

Chapter Twenty: Brink

Brittle, like the tendril of rope upholding an ancient wooden bridge prone to collapse, was his sanity. Blooregard Q. Kazoo felt contemptuous towards everyone, particularly Berry and her cohorts. His muscles ached, his limbs yearned for liberation, and the whiteness of this damn white padded room assaulted his eyes. Nausea, loneliness, and loathing etched in every cell, he squirmed futilely. For one agonizing week, he'd returned to this infernal, godforsaken hell hole. Solitary confinement, the worst possible punishment. Couple that with Berry occasionally extracting him to torture him over visiting his creator, the passing of bodily fluids in a metal bucket, and showers at gunpoint, he would have considered suicide were he that type of creature. Given Mac's inattentiveness in the past few days, he doubted he'd notice.

It wasn't that Mac stopped caring, but that he was so busy, he couldn't expend energy necessary for telepathy. They caught emotions on the fly, but nothing deeper. Unfortunately, to Bloo, who had nothing else to cling to, he considered it deliberate neglect. He avoided mentioning this to Berry since she already knew when he indulged in telepathy and would have naturally made a nasty comment about Mac having another lover. Bloo's patience and sanity where it was, he'd find a way to break out of his straitjacket and seriously hurt her.

Bloo longed to hurt all of DIE's employees, but none more than their head. If he indeed snapped, he'd kill her. He imagined various ways she'd suffer; screaming while she ran around her office ablaze; bullets disabling every part of her body until, begging for mercy, she received the final one to the brain; whips scouring her back and tearing chunks of blood, skin, and bone from her appendages until he cracked her neck; kicking her out of the window and watching, laughing his head off as she was shot to death, blown to pieces by her cohorts; he had envisioned more gruesome deaths, but Mac pushed at their link. Somehow, he doubted he'd be pleased to discover his lover was envisioning violent murders, regardless of who he wanted dead.

_Finally_, he grunted. _What's the matter? Run out of other things to do besides ignore me? _

Outside, Berry snickered and he envisioned strangling her with her hair. Never had the sound of someone's voice driven him far enough up the wall, he hit the ceiling. To think, between her torture sessions and berating, she'd tried to seduce him. Couldn't she get it through her thick skull he was gay? Not bi, not straight, but completely and totally gay. The only person for him was Mac, his beloved creator. No one else stood a chance.

_You know that's not it, Bloo._ A light breeze, like a caress, passed over his mind. They'd accomplished this in the past two days. Since they couldn't touch, they imagined holding the other. The semblance of affection brought frustrated tears to his eyes. He wanted the real thing, damn it, and he wanted it now. He hated it here, hated everyone and everything. Why had he been so stupid?

Berry and Bendy's argument filled his ears. Rumors spread about Bloo visiting Mac and, faster than blinking, whispers about Berry's incompetence and insanity accompanied. Many deemed she'd grown soft, letting Bloo live after obviously betraying her. They claimed no imaginary friend was worth the effort and since she hadn't killed him, she was losing her touch. Such claims irritated her incessantly and, when she discovered who spearheaded a particularly nasty one, she assassinated them instantaneously. Bloo, personally, didn't think she was losing her touch- he was very grateful to be alive, despite his rampant loathing.

"You're wasting your time," Bendy snarled. Meanwhile, Bloo discovered if he bent over double, his teeth just reached the main belt confining him. If he twisted around, maybe he could undo it. With Berry and Bendy directly outside, maybe one would hit the release button accidentally, stomp off towards her office, and leave him free to roam. It was a long shot, lamentably.

_What, now you're ignoring me? I can't sleep at night because I feel your pain, I'm trying to get you rescued, and you won't even talk? You can't take five seconds and tell me what's going on? _Mac snapped, grating his nerves. Didn't he understand how important this was? Maybe this time, one would finish the other off and give him sorely missed entertainment. Not to mention if Berry died, maybe he'd worm his way out of this.

No, he wouldn't. Because if Berry died, Bendy would kill him. His stomach churned and he glanced at the metal bucket, reeking to the high heavens. He gagged, but decided the smell was a sufficient deterrent to vomiting. Feces smelled bad enough, never mind vomit.

"It's none of your damn business who I deal with and why, _inferior_," she snarled. "If I say there's possibility in him, you have no right to protest. You are beneath me for a _reason_."

_Blood bath!_ Bloo cheered, accidentally sending on a thought he'd intended to keep private. _Break open each other's heads! Ha, hah!_

_Excuse me? Bloo, what's going on_? he sent and, irritated, Bloo did the only thing that came to mind- he opened himself up completely to his creator. A tingle coursed down his spine and he blinked, biting back a gasp. It felt like there were two minds in one body, both seeing and experiencing everything he was. The scents, the fatigues, everything passed into their bond. If he closed his eyes, Mac saw the darkness on the back of his eyelids. It was uncanny.

Mac's presence heavily over him had more than its advantages, too. Between their combined strength, he wrestled the belt back through the loop and undid his ties. Thank goodness for shabby made straitjackets and thin, wraith-like people. He was free, albeit stuck in that stupid room.

Casting the jacket off, he nudged the hand flap open to see Berry fling Bendy into the unlocking device. There was an audible click, unheard by either party; the duo continued to dissent violently as Berry shoved him into her office. He waited until the door clicked locked before, scarcely believing his good luck, he shoved the door open, ran down the stairs, ignored any stares, and sped outside. No one, not the snotty little suck ups, the desperate loyalists, or Berry herself would stop him.

* * *

Oddly enough, no one stopped him, but when he finally reached the convenience store, he didn't see him. He spurted erratically, narrowly avoiding DIE members and the few stragglers. Patches of shiny ice caused him to skid, but he righted himself before he fell. Where was he? Damn it, he was supposed to know where exactly to meet him. Not to mention the connection they'd shared suddenly dropped in frequency, meaning he sensed him, but that was it. Someone or something distracted him and irritated Bloo.

Finally, he discovered unless he entered the forbidden territory and returned to Foster's, he'd be empty handed. DIE officials marched in single file in front, but one of the many side passageways lay close by. If he retraced his steps to DIE, then he'd encounter Berry's wrath, but if he visited Foster's, he'd meet Frankie's. By now, she'd certainly learned the truth and would know he was the reason for Mr. Herriman's attack. Then again, compared to Berry's style of physical abuse alternating verbal, he thought he was safer with the younger Foster. Even if Frankie tried to hurt him, someone would restrain her. No one dared control Berry.

Swallowing hard, glancing at the guards cautiously, Bloo sidestepped an overturned garbage can, darted down an increasingly narrow alleyway, slipped under a door open minutely, and then started down a long, winding corridor. Hand on the wall, he ignored the mud lining and descended into the depths of Foster's. Ironic, considering religion's standpoint, that protection was underground and fear and destruction in one of Berry's skyscrapers. The further from the sky one was, the safer they tended to be. Heaven and Hell were transposed.

Nearing the door adjacent to the kitchen, a rush of sound, like a miniature explosion, reached him. His Mac sense tingled along with his "Frankie's pissed" sense. Then again, he hardly needed the latter, considering it was _her _he'd overheard ranting and raving. Still too far away to discern actual words, he garnered his name, Mac's, and a 'rendezvous", but that was the extent. However, if she'd been screaming for a while, he understood why he hadn't met him. Yet this was the odd thing- if Bloo didn't know any better, he could have sworn Mac was screaming back. But that couldn't possibly be because he never argued with her. She and Mr. Herriman argued more than she and Mac- Mac was too even tempered to start up.

He inched closer, laying his ear against the door. A palm reader scanned his particular imaginary genetic code, but thankfully concealed his presence. He wanted to know what fresh hell he stepped in before he found himself flat on the floor with a knife at his throat courtesy of Frankie. That and whatever irked Mac this much clearly had to be interesting material. When he lived here, getting Mac angry with him had been sort of a hobby, like some might read or watch television. Pushing his buttons made him happy, simply because you really had to shove and get them stuck. Lately, that hadn't been the case, but then again, it hadn't been _him _causing his anger.

"I don't want that _thing _here!" Frankie snarled, and, through a slender glass pane, he saw her gesticulating wildly. "He'll finish what he started!"

"You don't know that for certain," Mac retorted, red in the face. "I met him and he didn't kill me. You don't understand what he's going through. You think just because he hurt Mr. H once he'll do it again-"

"And _you _don't have any proof he won't," she countered. "The only way he's getting in here is over my dead body!"

Bloo stifled a snicker- she must have died when he first scrambled into the tunnel. In which case, he was arguing with a corpse. It sounded as good a cue as any to enter, but her next words halted him in his tracks. Hand still on the knob, he listened, shivering. He'd never heard her speak so callously and cruelly about him.

"Mac, the next time I see your imaginary friend, I _will _pay him back for what he did to Mr. Herriman. And, unlike him, I'll finish the job," she snarled and Bloo's blood ran cold. Fingers trembling, he wrenched his grip from the knob and retreated, dumbstruck. Maybe he hadn't made the right choice. Maybe Frankie really _would _kill him and he would have been better off with Berry. Then again, that was banking on the latter not listening too attentively to Bendy's insults and deciding to spare him for another day. There really was no safe haven for him anymore.

"You'll have to go through me to do it," he hissed. "He might have confessed, but that doesn't mean he's the same creature that did it. There are two sides to every story, Frankie."

Frankie tapped her foot impatiently, pivoted, and shut the curtains to conceal them from view. However, since the curtains covered the living room/den entrance, Bloo still saw them. Frankie's face had reddened too, but not as much as Mac. The two encircled each other like combatants in a boxing match. Left hook, right hook, who would win? At least Mac managed to keep his head in the game. He hadn't noticed his imaginary friend's entrance, either.

"Don't recite my grandmother's words. I don't _care _what he has to say-" she retorted and the sound of a cane striking the tiles alongside a limping hop silenced her. Madame Foster gestured towards the door Bloo hid behind and, pressing a button on the wall, slid it open. Exposed, he stood there like a deer in the headlights while Frankie glared hatefully. He wanted to run, but his body wasn't moving.

"_I _do," Madame Foster replied calmly, hobbling over to his side and leading him by the hand out of the kitchen and into the living room. Bloo, like a child reliant on his parent, followed obediently. Mac, after glowering at Frankie, proceeded; Frankie, arms folded across her chest, furiously wrapped her hand around Mr. Herriman's paw and half led, half jerked him towards the couch. The imaginary rabbit balked in protest, but she either ignored or didn't hear him. Her grip on his paw was iron-like and quite painful.

Wilt and Eduardo were, thankfully, elsewhere. Wherever they were, Mac hoped they hadn't overheard. Wilt hated disagreements, particularly between two close friends. He would have begged both parties to stop, which would have resulted in them exploding at him. Once everything was said and done, he'd be the one apologizing.

Mac, seizing Bloo's hand possessively, sat on the loveseat. Bloo, exceedingly uncomfortable with the nasty looks Frankie sent his way, unconsciously scooted closer to his creator. Wrapping an arm around his waist, he hoisted him onto his lap. Bloo wished he hadn't- he wanted to sink lower, not be raised, since it would be harder to spot Frankie's furious gaze.

Frankie, still grasping her lover's paw, directed him towards the couch directly opposite. Underneath his glove, his paw turned white thanks to poor circulation. She released it at long last (he massaged feeling back into it) to wrap an arm around his waist. Madame Foster frowned, noticing the coupling and an "us against them" occurring. Her granddaughter looked fit to kill Bloo if given the proper equipment and the permission. Mac, by contrast, held his creation stiffly enough to deflect any shots. The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a butcher knife.

Madame Foster, sighing, selected the only chair left, a padded, high backed roll about standing before the two couches. Its position made it possible for her to examine either side without facing one entirely. In this whole mess, though she couldn't help but be furious with Bloo, she reserved judgment until she heard the whole story. She only wished her granddaughter would follow suit. This was _her _imaginary friend and she wasn't as enraged. Then again, experience had taught her that saving anger until it's productive was the best policy. Frankie clearly hadn't learned that yet.

"Bloo, without lying or exaggerating, tell us exactly what's happened," she said firmly, eying Frankie capriciously. Mr. Herriman whispered something in her ear, she rolled her eyes, but bided her tongue. Good. Things would progress better uninhibited.

Beginning quietly, he detailed the nightmare Berry coordinated (she'd revealed this later on, during a torture session after he'd met Mac the first time) to force him to believe Mac would betray him. Frankie opened her mouth to interject, but Madame Foster, gliding the chair, rapped her smartly on the hand. Rubbing her bruise, she shut her mouth again. Bloo, wavering, continued.

He explained his initial doubts, how the mission had nearly not happened, his misgivings during the actual attack, and plunging himself in the way of the knife. Shutting his eyes, he monotonously told how the DIE members had left him for dead (Frankie muttered something about doing the same if she could and Madame Foster once again rapped her smartly on the hand) and how Berry, of all people, had saved him. Then he told them of her madness; her obsession with her dead lover; attempts to make him straight; her ruthless, cold blood murders before his eyes; Bendy; solitary confinement, and her abuse. Reaching up gingerly, he rubbed off the makeup to reveal many bruises lining his face. Mac gasped, then, tracing them tenderly with his finger, swallowed hard. Eerily, he spoke listlessly, like this had happened to someone else. The actions, the deaths, everything overheard or experienced, like a novel instead of real life.

Disturbed, he glanced at Madame Foster, but she remained stoic. When Bloo finished, silenced reigned. Other than trembling hands, there was no indication Bloo cared about this at all. Mac shuddered; the first step towards madness was callousness towards other's well-being. Had he been so desensitized to death, he didn't care if someone died in front of him? Didn't that make him similar to Berry?

"I see…" Madame Foster said slowly, rapping her cane on the couch's arm to silence Frankie's impeding objections. "Mac, do you have anything to add?"

Taken aback, he stammered before begrudgingly telling her about Goo and her fanatical ideas. She nodded, indicated she needed time to ponder the issues at hand, and left the two couples alone. Bad idea.

* * *


	21. Scars

_IMPORTANT NOTE: _This is Dude13 here (I'll be explaining why the heck I'm leaving an author's note in azuretears' story in just a moment) with a quick messgae for you all. Azuretears has beenexperiencing a lot of technical difficulty with her computer, and at the moment, she won't be able to gain internet access until Monday.

Until then, she's asked me to upload this chapter, just to get back in the routine of posting a new chapter for Nightmare every Sunday.

That'sbasically it! She can't gain access online, so I'm just helping her out. Enjoy the chapter, it's a real goodie!

-Dude13

* * *

Chapter Twenty One- Scars

Madame Foster curled up on her four poster bed, hugged a rabbit pillow to her chest, and contemplated. Tucked away in the far recesses of Foster's underground, only Frankie and Mr. Herriman knew exactly where it was and she intended to keep it that way. Though she trusted many of the imaginaries and humans here a great deal, only her family (and she considered her Funny Bunny family) would she entrust the location of something so private. After all, considering Bloo's treachery, it wasn't unforeseeable that others might fall as well (and had, but never successfully maimed anyone). The fewer who knew where she slept, the better.

It hardly surprised her that a squadron of younglings decided that kamikaze was the best approach. Ah, the foolishness of the young, believing progress could be made in a few short minutes instead of decades. They forgot mortality's sting and their own vulnerability. Still, she supposed in a world where they had nothing to lose, suicidal missions appealed. Their lives meant little to them besides trajectory bullets. The thought depressed her, but she'd seen its impact on Mac. Children and young adults had no idea what freedom, a life without Berry, was like. They had no hope for the future because they had no idea what hope was.

And it'd been partly her fault they'd had theirs brutally torn away. Foster's _had _remained underground and immobile far too long, but this wasn't a children's game. Real lives were lost daily and she feared putting loved ones out as targets. The sight of her beloved Herriman after their attack should have firmed her position, but it weakened it instead.

No matter what she tried, they were still vulnerable. Mr. Herriman had been lured out of Foster's, an insult to their supposed security. Maybe they'd stopped hiding for refuge and more because she thought she could avoid the war. She'd forgotten that no matter what she did, people and imaginaries were going to die. In her haste to ensure their supposed protection, she'd overlooked the obvious- infiltration could and would happen. Not to mention aboveground, DIE members could easily shoot someone down.

Well, if this "Goo" could rally her followers into such fervor, maybe she could do the same with those belowground. Mac might represent how the youth truly viewed this matter. Sure, he'd personally 'lost' an imaginary to the cause, but others had already too. Or creators. Her indecision had literally cost lives and now that she thought it, she regretted it. She'd forgotten what it was like to be young, impudent, and, more importantly, under someone's tyranny.

Cocking her head, she thought she heard another argument brewing. Perhaps she shouldn't have left those four alone, but she'd no choice. She didn't blame Frankie for distrusting Bloo any more than she did Mac for caring so deeply for him, it hurt. Placing her cane down on the floor, she considered interceding, but changed her mind. Let them work out their differences on their own. It was healthier, for one thing. Second, it'd been a long day.

Resting against her mountain of pillows, many of which fashioned in the shape of a rabbit, she shut her eyes and imagined a world without DIE. Rabbits had always been her favorite animal…

**…**

Frankie glared daggers at Bloo, unconsciously retreating into his creator's arms. The instant Bloo shifted to leave, she rose immediately, temper at the breaking point. Mac and Mr. Herriman stood as well, eyes on their respective partners. Given Bloo's unpredictable mood swings, he'd either start fighting or run off. Just in case, Mac hovered over him. His own argument with Frankie hadn't been forgotten either.

"Why don't you go back to DIE?" Frankie snapped. "I expect they'll lay out the welcome wagon. You're Berry's pet, aren't you?"

Mac opened his mouth to defend him when his creation thrust him aside, sending him colliding with the couch. He wound up sliding off and onto the carpet. He wasn't certain he ought to be concerned or relieved Bloo was trembling in anger. At least he'd stopped speaking monotonously and sitting statuesque.

Defiant azure eyes narrowed, fury dancing, and his fists clenched. Even though he knew better than to strike her, the thought raced through his mind nonetheless. He'd longed to hit someone badly the past few weeks and here she was, practically asking for it. He swallowed hard, desperately shoving down his own temper. It wouldn't solve anything if he punched anything, quite the opposite. He had to prove that, despite wavering, his loyalty for Foster's outweighed any towards DIE. He knew this and yet, it was so tempting to beat the crap out of someone here.

"You have no idea what it's like to be me, so back off," he snarled, shaking violently.

"Miss Frances…" Mr. Herriman murmured gently, but she waved him off. Folding her arms across her chest, she glared down at the blue skinned humanoid and her eyes swept his scar. She smirked contemptuously, but didn't touch him. Mac, trembling himself, wrapped an arm around his waist. Bloo flung him back into the couch. He didn't need his help.

"And you have no idea how much I hate you for what you did," she whispered dangerously. "It's a good thing Grandma came when she did, because if _I _were the one to see you behind that door…"

"Don't you _dare _threaten him!" Mac snapped abruptly, leaping up. "He didn't want to hurt him! You don't know what you're talking about! He doesn't _like _being Berry's pet and-"

"Mac," Bloo said coldly, "I think I can defend myself. Thanks."

Mouth agape, hurt, he perched by the door. Bloo's fury surged through his veins and the desire to hit something or someone. He understood his frustration- everyone who had hurt him, everything they'd done and he couldn't retaliate. Then here was Frankie, taunting and menacing him. Still, regardless of the argument before, he thought he could do without seeing Bloo hit her. He cared about both of them and it pained him deeply to think of them fighting. He wished things didn't have to be like this…

"I'm sorry you haven't had the joy of watching someone beg for mercy and die before your eyes," he replied frigidly and strode out of the room. Mac followed helplessly, glad at least he had the common sense to leave before things got too heated.

**…**

Frankie seethed, jade eyes shooting sparks. Part of her wanted to pity Bloo, but the other loathed and appalled his behavior. How could Madame Foster let him in? True, he hadn't actually done anything and he'd simply told his story, then left. Okay, so maybe he wasn't prone to attack people…or maybe he waited until he had a group to hide behind.

Yet Mac seemed so convinced he wasn't a horrible creature and he continued to reach out to him in his time of need. He was hopelessly devoted to him and though she'd had her disagreements occasionally with the kid, he probably had a keen intuition. Sighing, she drew back the curtain slightly to watch them interact. Her murderous mood evaporating, replaced by helplessness, she turned to Mr. Herriman. She wasn't going to forgive Bloo instantly, that was too much to ask for, but she'd accept his presence if she absolutely had to. Given her opinion on the matter, she thought that was probably the best he could hope for.

"I don't know," she said quietly, though whether it was regarding Bloo's last statement, what to do, or anything else, she never added. Hugging her arms to her chest, she flung herself into Madame Foster's formerly occupied chair. She buried a hand in her hair, combed through it shakily, then glanced at him once more. The imaginary rabbit stared at the curtain for a few seconds before returning his gaze to her. She wondered to how many of Madame Foster's thoughts he was privy.

"You don't trust him," he replied evenly, regarding her from the couch. "I hardly blame you, but you forget it was not _you _he attacked."

Sighing heavily, she glared through the curtains as though suddenly, she'd develop x-ray vision. No such thing occurred and, folding her arms across her chest, she settled on the couch. Mr. Herriman glanced at her briefly, and then looked forward. She shifted closer, but he paid her no mind. In fact, he seemed to be ignoring her outright.

"I'm sorry, okay?" she murmured. "I can't help jumping down his throat. It's just…what they almost did…and…I almost lost you…"

Green eyes shining brightly, she flung her arms around him. The imaginary rabbit winced, extracting her arms to move them to a safer, less bruised place. He smiled weakly, nuzzling the top of her head with his furry chin. She smiled back, lifting her head, cupping the back of his in her palm, leaning forward, and kissing him soundly on the cheek, then the lips. Blushing underneath his fur, he very carefully, mindful of his scrapes, gashes, and cuts, wrapped his arms around her waist. She slid closer, deepening the kiss…

**…**

…while Mac stood off the side and eyed his imaginary friend capriciously. Bloo stood, poised with his hand on the doorknob. The teenager wanted to do exactly what Frankie inside the living room was, but he couldn't. After that latest show, he wasn't sure he wouldn't be treated with extreme animosity. Still, this might be the last time they saw each other. A lump formed in his throat and refused to dislodge. This could be it, their last goodbye, and neither was even going to say "I love you"?

"So, that's it, huh?" Mac snapped, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "You're just going to walk out that door like you walked in and if Berry kills you, that'll be the end of us?"

Bloo spun around, azure eyes flashing defiantly. Part of him wanted to snap, "yes, that's what I'm going to do, to hell with you". But then there _was _the very real possibility Berry would kill him for this act of treachery coupled with how very hurt Mac was right now. A lump formed in his throat as well and, stepping away from the door, he enveloped him in such a tight hug, it stole his breath away. Trembling, his arms wrapped firmly around his waist like the instant he released him; he'd disappear into the floor. Mac glanced into his eyes and saw the same fear he'd captured the last time they'd met, when he shoved him into the garbage.

"I love you, Mac…" he whispered. "And if Berry kills me…I will find a way back to you."

Mac shuddered, both pleased and unnerved. Tentatively, he touched his injured cheek, and, though Bloo cringed, he snatched his hand and pressed it against the stitches. The brown haired boy frowned, uncertain- Bloo's hand was shaking badly. It was clear he would have preferred no one touch that side ever again, but if anyone were to receive permission, it was him. Still, the longer his hand lingered, the more violently he quaked. Alarmed, he ripped it away.

"Do you think I'm a freak?" he whispered and reclaimed his hand, forcing it to roam over the stitches, up and down his face. Mac balked, aware of the effect it had on his lover, but Bloo's grip was too strong. Determinedly, despite the fact his hand was now shaking uncontrollably and barely holding on, he continued until, unable, he released him.

"I think…" he murmured, uncomfortable with the way Bloo's whole body trembled as it struggled to cradle him. He had the distinct impression if he agreed, he'd lose it entirely. Of course, he'd never say that, but the way he quaked, he had to admit it terrified him. His eyes, too, were wholly unsettling, vast and slightly mad. How much sanity would he possess when they were through? Would he be sane at all?

"I don't love you any less…" he whispered and this eased him, yet he continued to shudder. Gently cupping the back of his head in his palm, he kissed the sides of his torn cheek, planted one on his forehead, and drew back when Bloo's lips jumped onto his for a deep, passionate kiss. The world melted away and, for one blissful second, DIE, Foster's, sides, and hatred vanished. All there existed and ever would were Mac and Bloo, locked in what could possibly be their last kiss. In which case, this would have been the furthest either got, considering they were both virgins.

Apparently, the same thought struck both simultaneously, because, grinning like the Cheshire Cat, Bloo snatched Mac by the hand and led him down to his room.

* * *

One last note, azuretears wrote a lemon that takes place after this chapter, and she has it on in the "Cartoon Misc" section, under the same pen name. Check it out! 

If any of you are still confused about exactly what's going on, please PM me!

Same drill folks, please review! Azuretears will be back as soon as she can!

-Dude13


	22. Prelude to a Battle

Author's Note: Well, the people I wanted to review didn't, but, I figured it's not fair to keep withholding the chapter. At any rate, here's the second to last chapter. Enjoy.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Prelude to a Battle

No one idled by the highest floor. Even those who using the bathroom ran out fearfully, toilet paper stuck to their shoes as they fled for their lives. Bendy and Berry's argument had grown increasingly violent and gunshots rang out through the building. It seemed Bendy had garnered a rather impressive faction and, upon seeing their leader attack Berry, they decided it was high time to get themselves into gear. While their bosses fought, they started skirmishes of their own. Screams met the shots and the sickening slick sound of a stabbing.

"Don't you _dare _tell me how to run my own syndicate," she snarled, fumbling for another gun. The last one flew out the window. Useless drawers full of useless papers, including documents proving the many bribes she'd given local law officials to let her pull all this, and the love letters she and Virginia wrote each other. They fluttered to the floor in a haphazard pile and in her haste, she stepped on one. It ripped and she swore.

Smirking, his bony fingers sought the picture of her and her creator. Grinning maliciously, he tore it to shreds in front of her. Extracting a lighter from his pocket, he burned the remnants. Silence reigned in which Berry's blood pounded in her head and she seriously contemplated ripping his throat out. She lunged over the desk and landed flat on her stomach with her hands outstretched. He jumped nimbly out of the way, laughing derisively, and picking up a few letters and bribe records, he burned them as well. One or two he read aloud and tears pricked the corners of her eyes. He didn't have the right to read them. No one did. These were her beloved Virginia's words, not his to bungle.

"_I'll kill you!_" she screeched, wrenching three out of his hand and wrapping a hand around his throat. He shoved her away and she fell onto the rug. Smirking, he flung the lighter in her face and waltzed out. This, unfortunately for her, was the beginning of the end.

* * *

Bloo innately cuddled closer to the source of warmth, wherever it emanated. Warm breath on his neck, strong arms wrapped around his waist possessively, and a decidedly happy feeling circulated through his body. Panicking, he spun around and prayed to whoever that the unthinkable hadn't happened. He hadn't gotten drunk, high, stupid, or brainwashed enough to have sex with _her_, had he? His heart stopped at the prospect. There was no way…if ever there was a reason for suicide… 

However, when he glanced at his asleep creator, smiling softly, he relaxed. In his sleep, he nuzzled him affectionately and he never wanted to leave. Couldn't he stay in this moment forever, in this embrace? The memory of making love with him brought a grin to his face and he seriously wondered how bad it truly would be if he just stayed _here_. What would happen if he laughed in Berry's face and told her he had something better, something she could never give him? The way his creator's chest rose and fell, the steady thump of his heart, his tenderness, the way his brown bangs fell over his lightly shut eyes in that perfect way…he could fall for him all over again.

In his heap of clothing sat the compact and its shrill beeping brought him back to his senses. But maybe he didn't feel like answering Berry right now. Maybe he'd just lie here on cloud nine and never do DIE's bidding again. Maybe they could make love a thousand times over and ignore the world around them. The thought sounded pretty tempting to Bloo, a little too tempting. He rolled over, shutting his eyes.

An electrical burst sped through his transformer belt and the pain made him grit his teeth. The shocks started to grow in intensity, starting small and getting to the point where if he didn't move right now, he'd electrocute Mac. Every cell in his body throbbed in agony and he fell to his knees on the floor. Muscles in his body seized up, then began to spasm. He twitched uncontrollably, the equivalent of hammers pounding his spine, drills tearing at his muscles, and being walloped repeatedly by a metal pipe in the head. Barely conscious, he screamed and flipped open the compact. All at once, the pain fled.

Mac awoke with a start, but if he thought to inquire about Bloo, he didn't have the chance. Berry's furious voice filled the little room and Bloo, shaking like a leaf, just barely managed to listen. He turned his head and vomited in a corner. Before she continued her to tirade, she halted to laugh unmercifully while her slave heaved. Mac had never wanted so badly to hurt someone in his life.

"You…fucking…bitch…" he spat, tears of pain pouring down his face. "I…hate…you."

Berry guffawed disgustingly and Mac's fists clenched. He wanted to crawl off the bed and see if Bloo was all right, but then he'd be in the line of the camera. The whip marks and scars on his bare back stood out boldly and he ground his teeth in frustration. How satisfying would it be to make her pay for this. To make her hurt for every time she'd hurt _him_. But whose thoughts were these? In the grand scheme of things, did it matter? Their anger combined into a force previously unmatched.

She calmed, composing herself despite the ruckus outside her office. Knuckles blanched under the table and a muscle twitched in her jaw. Distantly, they heard the name "Virginia" thrown around like garbage and Berry's fury redoubled. Her eyes burned furiously and, unable to fulfill part of it, she confronted one of the catalysts. If she could, Mac got the impression she'd reach through the communicator and throttle him. Then again, she'd practically done that just now, if his screams were any indication.

"And _you _snuck out, my little bitch. Or did you think I wouldn't notice?" she replied smoothly, as though they were merely discussing the weather, but the growl punctuating her statement was anything but friendly. Her eyes narrowed to slits and when another gunshot punctuated the hallway outside her office, she feigned ignorance. DIE was literally falling around her.

Swallowing hard, he retorted, wishing he felt the confidence his voice delivered, "So? I don't give a damn. I'm not going back. You can't make me."

Smirking, she craned her head and the camera shifted with her. Bloo opened his mouth to continue his rebellion, but her next statement sent him crashing back to earth. Flabbergasted, he blinked and the meager contents of his stomach, whatever was left after that last binge, gurgled weakly. It bubbled like acid and he clenched his eyes shut in the hopes he wouldn't vomit again. Once was enough, thanks. Besides, he no longer tasted him in his mouth…and he missed the sensation.

"Why, _hello_, Mac," Berry said with a false cheeriness. "Bloo, why didn't you introduce us? After all, he _is _your creator."

The color drained from their faces and the transformer sent a spare bolt. Bloo cried out, gripping the rug tightly. He refused to turn his head towards the compact again and, disgruntled, she turned up the amplification. Again, the sensation of hammers, drills, and metal pipes and he screamed into the rug. Mac leapt off the bed (since there was no point in hiding his presence now) and hugged Bloo. The humanoid sobbed, turning around to press his face into his bare chest. Tremors rocked his body and the next time Bloo was electrocuted, they both received it. Mac buried his face in his hair to suppress his own howl.

"Hurts, doesn't it, Mac?" she snickered. "I'll give Bloo twenty minutes to return to me. If he doesn't, that transformer belt will go haywire, sending out explosives that will kill anyone within a thirty foot area. And, in the result _that _doesn't kill you, I've also programmed it to heat up to the point where it will burn anyone wearing or touching it. Oh, but don't worry- I won't turn _that _on unless you don't release him in sixty seconds.

"And Bloo can tell you I'm not joking."

Weakly, Bloo nodded and gently pushed him away. He held tight, however, and the belt started to sizzle. The teenager sprung away before it gave him a third degree burn and, the instant he relinquished his grip, it cooled. Bloo, already in a great deal of pain thanks to the shock treatment, curled up in a ball and tried to yank off the belt. A couple hundred volts of electricity coursed through his body until, defeated, he ceased.

"Twenty minutes, Blooregard. That's it. And when you arrive, we'll discuss your punishment."

The compact shut off and, with a heavy heart, Bloo dressed, kissed his creator mutely on the cheek, and ignored his questions. Then, like a phantom in the night, he was gone.

* * *

The most intimate, pleasurable, and deliriously happy moment of his life kept him sane through her raving and assault. Dissatisfied her words and actions hardly impacted him, she tossed him inside his confinement container and he passed out.

* * *

Another week passed, but, unlike the one before it, this one held promise. Through Mac, Madame Foster sought out Goo and the two discussed tactics. Their oftentimes arguments lasted late into the night, but neither side backed down. Frankie served coffee, comforted Mac, and occasionally swayed on her feet as a result of the long nights catching up to her. Mr. Herriman always caught her, though, and nuzzled her affectionately. Since he disliked physical confrontations himself, he avoided their planning sessions, though he secretly relished their thoughts. Part of him wouldn't admit it outwardly, but he yearned for vengeance for his attack. Madame Foster knew this, however, if her curt nod during one was any indication. 

Foster's had the advantage, at least. Though Berry could program her specially designed belts to discharge heat and electricity, they still couldn't track anyone underground. Thanks to Bloo and Mac, they knew where DIE HQ was located and how to get to it. They also knew some of what they were up against, since Bloo, risking life and limb, managed to sneak out to confirm what they already strongly suspected. DIE members under Bendy's control and some who simply no longer cared, were rioting. Even a few of her personal guards had left her to pursue their own selfish gains. Berry's inability to kill Bloo and her now revealed past love for Virginia were pulling apart any unity and loyalty DIE had. Goo said that anyone could waltz inside now and not be attacked, as she'd demonstrated with one of her soldiers.

The time had come for action. Goo's forces were to prevent any from impeding their progress inside DIE and to take out as many members as possible. Madame Foster's forces had a similar task, but infinitely more dangerous- walk into the lion's den, slay the beast, save Bloo, and return alive. A few bucked at the challenge, but, under her stern eye, she rallied the troops. They attacked at sunset.

* * *


	23. Final Battle

Author's Note: Well, it's been a long ride...and now it's over. I promise you I will work on "Even in Death", my other Foster's story, and of course there will always be little one-shots for 30 Kisses.

Foster's Home is not mine.

Chapter Twenty Three: Final Battle

Twilight, sunset on what might be the last day they lived. The significance was not lost on "Foster's Fighters", the brave crusaders vowing to cross through the city and arrive at Berry's doorstep. Among them stood Mac, fidgeting in his bulletproof vest; Madame Foster, sharp and determined in this decisive hour; Goo, speaking little and glaring suspiciously, doubtlessly expecting them to 'wimp out'; and, last but not least, Frankie and Mr. Herriman, throwing away the shackles of disguise, concealment, and any other taboo to embrace openly and share a passionate, heartfelt kiss. The only imaginary of the pack, he would have stood out like a sore thumb were it not for the transformer turning him into a human. Bad enough that Madame Foster led the troops, but worse if she was seen with him in his normal guise. Frankie, too, insisted, though the scars carried over.

Mac nervously ran his fingers through his hair and turned to the smallest member of their party and oldest, Madame Foster. She nodded curtly and, wordlessly, they proceeded out. Silence descended like a blanket; each dwelled in thoughts as they passed through the rioting city. Not even the occasional scream broke it.

* * *

Before them loomed DIE HQ, the place where dreams smashed to pieces and many a friend and human met their execution. Mac pushed the gilded doors and, to his astonishment, they gave way into the lobby. What was once a magnificent display of ornate gold, marble, and bright lights was now thrown into darkness. Scuffles amongst members, for whatever reason, ensured they somewhat safely crossed to the elevator. Mr. Herriman kept looking behind him nervously, like his perpetrators would break forth from the foray to finish him off. Frankie, kissing his cheek, guided him inside with the others.

Once there, Mac pressed the button Bloo informed him led to the proper floor. He leaned against the railing and stared unseeingly, grateful that at least this lift had power. Goo, expression unreadable, filed inside and shut her eyes. Next came Madame Foster, minus her cane but moving swiftly and adroitly nonetheless; perhaps the upcoming confrontation lent her strength. Lastly were Frankie and Herriman, the latter wrapped an arm around her waist. Madame Foster turned her head to peer at them, but if their closeness disturbed her, she said nothing. Like the rest of the excursion, the slow rise to the top passed in complete silence. The loudest sounds were their breaths and, in each one's ears, the pounding of their hearts.

Mac knew if Bloo was here, he'd crack a weak sexual joke about 'going up together'. He stared at the floor rather than behold Frankie and Herriman. They were no longer in an embrace, but, somehow, that upset him more. He glanced up once to throw a sharp look their way and then, again, dropped his gaze. The elevator chimed every floor they never entered. To everyone whose nerves were close to the breaking point thanks to anxiety, that particular bell made them want to rip it out of the mechanism and smash it to smithereens. What was the point of announcing the fourteenth floor when they wanted another? Stupid elevator. Stupid mechanism. Stupid DIE and stupid Berry.

After an eternity, the bell finally pronounced their destination and Mac, Goo, Madame Foster, Frankie, and Mr. Herriman marched out. Bloo, hands trembling so badly he barely upheld the automatic rifle he'd been given, ordered them into Berry's office. His azure eyes swept the group and rested longest on Mac. Whatever silent communication passed between them remained secret, but a blush tinted Bloo's rather pale cheeks. Berry opened her doors at Bloo's unwilling behest and they steeled themselves accordingly.

* * *

Once there, she dictated Bloo bind them to the conveniently equipped front wall (to the right of the now hidden screens) and, mute, he performed her orders while keeping them at gunpoint. Now that they were completely inside, they saw the pistol in Berry's hands aimed at his spinal cord. One shot and he'd either be paralyzed…or dead. Mac opened his mouth, either to snap at her or whisper to him, but he tenderly shut it for him and, his back to her, stroked his face. The interplay of emotions contorted his face, but, the struggle showed itself most in his eyes, clouded in pain and regret. He, however, whispered "I'm sorry" to Mr. Herriman, but whether it was for past actions or current, he never elaborated. Grimly, he stepped back and moved away from Mac, where he'd naturally lingered. She directed him towards the windows and her side; Mac had never seen him more miserable in his life.

The curtains in her room rustled, but the window wasn't open. No breezes entered the room, but, were anyone to inspect the very bottom of the curtains, they might have seen yellow sneakers.

"So…" she drawled. "What do we have here?"

Fingering the trigger lovingly, she pressed it against each of their temples in turn. Smiling maliciously, she clapped her hands once, gun between them, and, out of the floor by the windows sprang a set of restraints for Bloo. He protested, but a gag reduced his cries to nonsense. Furiously, he glared at her from his position, bound and gagged on the floor. The metal arms disappeared back into their slots.

"A girl I don't know," she said, frowning lightly. "But I believe I've heard of you. Charisse, is it? Your parents used to call you 'Goo'. Stupid nickname, really. Maybe that was why I killed them. I don't remember."

Every inch of Goo trembled irately and, despite the cold metal binding her, spat in Berry's face. Ochre eyes flashed dangerously and regardless of her captivity, she looked fully capable of ripping her throat out. She kicked against the chains fastening her feet, but a delicate knife along her thigh halted this. Eyes widened, she glared hatefully, but stopped fighting. Berry snickered, drifting onto the next person.

"Don't forget, child, that I hold your life in my hands," she chortled, pausing at Madame Foster. Wizened green eyes calmly met hers and, unlike the others, she made no declamations at her loss of freedom. The unimaginable power in her eyes defied her, even when Berry held her weapon of destruction. She alone feared nothing Berry brought.

"And _you _forget that death is the only absolute, Berry. Nothing, not supremacy, affluence, or love, lasts forever. Cup it between your hands like water and droplets slip between your fingers, forever lost. You might murder us, but we will be remembered for our generosity, courage, and grit. You will be remembered for the tyrant you are, the lives you've robbed, and the crimes you've committed- if you're remembered at all."

Her words struck Berry like a slap in the face and, unable to counter, she moved on to Mac. She placed the gun to his temple and squeezed the trigger, but not enough to create sufficient pressure to release a bullet. Behind her, Bloo screamed soundlessly, madly wriggling about. Tears streamed down his face and ran unchecked onto his collar. She pivoted to watch like he was an especially entertaining television program. Mac longed to spit at her like Goo, but he lacked the confidence.

Kneeling, she removed the gag and his words became clear. Lovingly, she stroked his temples and ran her fingers through his hair. Bloo stopped sobbing to growl. If anything, his hatred for her ran as deeply as Goo's.

"Leave him _alone_," he growled. "Don't you _dare _touch him. Do whatever you want to me…just don't kill him."

She chuckled, cramming the gag back and nearly choking him. Bloo coughed, but, because the gag prevented normal air passage, the phlegm stuck. She strode towards Mac again, but, stopped again thanks to Bloo's unhealthy blue coloration, deep for even him. She sighed, reluctantly removing the gag and letting him cough out his fit. Once he finished, she inspected the rag, grimaced, and shoved it back. She tied to the back of his head lest he try to force it with his tongue.

"You have the right to order _me_ around, Bloo? Since when? I have suffered your stupidity long enough. When you see Mac die by my hands, you will be mine forever. You will have no choice but to pay allegiance and all the dissenters will finally appreciate me. This city shall belong to me, no one else, and no one will stop me. Not _you_," she said, pointing to Madame Foster.

"Or _you_," she said, pointing to Goo.

"Or _you_," she pointed to Frankie. "Which reminds me- I was in the middle of something."

Fingering the gun affectionately, she strode over to Frankie and pressed it into her chest. Beside her, Mr. Herriman blanched and Madame Foster's teeth ground fiercely. Mac paled, decidedly queasy. Goo merely glanced away, finding the threat distasteful but not emotionally affecting like the others. She, after all, cared not beyond a menial bond, for her.

"And _you_, the one who so staunchly defended _this _rat," she indicated Mr. Herriman and kicked him in the shin. Frankie's eyes narrowed to slits and her hands balled into fists. Berry squeezed the trigger mockingly like she had with Mac, but let it travel further. A millimeter further and a bullet would have lodged itself in her heart. Mr. Herriman, too petrified to even whimper loudly, shuddered.

"I saw you two on the monitors before. You're in _love _with this beast, aren't you? You're disgusting. He's an imaginary _rabbit_, for god's sake. But I shouldn't be surprised. You're a Foster. And part of the qualifications or lack thereof of being one is doing cowardly and or bizarre and socially unacceptable acts like fucking rabbits."

Frankie looked like she'd like nothing more than to snap Berry's neck. Like Goo, she spat in her face, but this didn't seem to be enough. Straining against her confines, she snarled menacingly, her face a deep puce. Madame Foster too, looked quite upset, but nowhere near as violently outraged as her descendent. If looks could kill, both Fosters would have assassinated Berry where she stood.

Unable to stop herself, she snapped, "Says the sociopath. Whatever I do with him never harms anyone…everything you touch hurts someone."

Berry's eyes narrowed, blood rushed to her face, but, when it seemed she might attack her for shooting off her mouth, she shook her head and sniggered. Wiping herself off, she focused on the last member of their group and, fingering his transformer belt, slid the dial, rendering him into a rabbit. Scrutinizing his various injuries, she snickered and poised the gun at his head. Frankie whimpered piteously, anger dissipating in place of very real fear. Madame Foster froze, wishing that she could see what was going on beyond her granddaughter.

"Well, well, Frankie Foster, what do you have to say to this?" she crooned, sliding the gun around his fur. The redhead's knuckles whitened and she appeared to be on the verge of tears. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on Berry's part, but no matter.

"D-don't," she stammered, whispering it to the floor. "Don't hurt him. Please."

"What would you give me if I oblige you? Will you beg for his life like the dog you are? Will you plead? Will you get on your hands and knees and lick my boots?" she cackled and the curtains rustled again. No one noticed.

Resting the gun in a non-vital place, she squeezed the trigger once the pistol prodded him in the stomach. A single tear slid down Frankie's cheek, but she turned away, ashamed to show how much deeply this disturbed her. The curtains rustled louder and, swearing profusely, Berry yanked the gun away in the nick of time. The bullet's trajectory created a hole in the wall and singed his gloves, but otherwise, barely touched him. Frankie exhaled shakily and Madame Foster shivered, aware thanks to her imaginary friend's input, how close that'd been.

"What the hell is that?" she snapped, but none answered. Scowling, she returned her attention to her prisoners. Mac's eyes linked to Bloo's and vice versa.

Examining the corner suspiciously, she pointed her weapon at each one. Every pair of eyes, except Mac's, glared daggers back. Relishing the hatred, she punched Herriman in the stomach to torture the Fosters and, since she knew Mac wouldn't look at her unless she forced him, pulled out the knife again to run it along the sides of his face and under his chin. The cuts were shallow, but Bloo inaudibly hissed at his creator's attack.

"Now that I have all your undivided attention, I might as well tell each and every one of you how I got here in the first place. Oh, it wasn't easy. After I rejected old lady Foster's 'invitation', I searched for contacts underground, people who had an axe to grind against imaginaries and or humans. At that point, it didn't matter who. Allies were allies.

"I heard from a reputable source someone was starting a group called "Destroy Imagination Everywhere" and claimed an imaginary had been responsible for his child's death. This, as it turns out, was Virginia's father. Anger consumed me- how _dare _he blame my Ginny's death on me. What a pathetic, stupid human to assume I'd hurt her.

"So I, still maneuvering in that secret human guise my creator gave me, worked my way onto his good side. I did him a few 'favors' and then, slit his throat in his sleep. I gained control of his minions and, through them, certain other accomplishments, like bribing the law enforcement to stay away from this town and surrounding cities. It wasn't easy, but thanks to a steady flow of 'blood money', I keep inquiries and tourism out.

"I required my new members to build me a high rise and then, there you come in again, old lady Foster. The instant I settle down in my new office and call out to my members to bring me new recruits, I ascertain a vast majority are nowhere to be found. After months, I discover you and your compatriots have stolen my transformer's prototype and planted yourselves beyond my grasp, underground.

"But never mind all that now. I _can _kill you now and I will. It's been far too long," she hissed, licking her lips. The curtains shifted once more and a figure approached, gun in hand and standing behind her. Berry placed the knife into its holster on her transformer belt, held her gun to Madame Foster's temple, and squeezed. A loud gunshot deafened and one female slumped over, dead. But it wasn't Madame Foster- it was Berry. Grinning cruelly, Bendy lorded over his new achievement and turned towards Bloo. It was party time.

Striding forward, he undid the ties, ripped the gag out of his mouth, and forced him to his feet at gunpoint. Bewildered, the others exchanged glances, though they couldn't help the shudder. Berry, at least, they knew slightly. This new introduction was completely foreign indefinable. He held the gun to Bloo's chest, shoved him forward, and told him to start running.

"Berry gave you all the chances in the world. Well, Berry's not here now. Come on, whiz imaginary, escape death," he said, smirking. "I'll give you a one minute head start before I blow your brains out."

Bloo needed no further goading. Staggering slightly, he bounded out of the office doors and down the stairs, his footsteps echoing on the metal. Mac, sweat pouring down his face, screamed his imaginary friend's name as Bendy tore after him. He pounded his fists, kicked stubbornly, but only dug the iron into his wrists and ankles.

In the stairwell, anyone loitering around scampered. They had no idea what transpired, yet the ominous sight of an obvious infidel holding a gun and facing Berry's pet told them in no uncertain terms to avoid them. Bloo knew the odds were against him, but they had always been against him. True, Bendy was an unknown element, and he was armed, whereas Bloo was not. But Bloo laughed in the face of danger...perhaps a little too much.

Seemingly thinking the same thing, Bendy said, "Your luck is about to run out."

He squeezed the trigger and Bloo jumped, missing the bullet by a hair. His manacles clanged and crashed, grabbing the banister to prevent falling to his death. Bendy grinned, stepped forward, and began prying Bloo's fingers off the banister, one by one. Bloo checked to see if his feet were firmly on a step and head butted Bendy in the stomach. The move faltered Bendy just enough for Bloo to ascend to the next stair...and then Bendy pointed the gun in Bloo's face again.

Distantly, like a hammer striking the edge of a thick building, Mac pressed against their link. Bloo ignored him.

"One shot and DIE's pet dies with its head. Hah, hah. Dies," Bendy said, cackling. Bloo stared at him. This guy was a little whacko.

Bloo assessed his options and did something very stupid and unpredictable. He flipped over, knocking his legs into Bendy's legs, and slammed his head into the stairs. Groaning, he looked up to see Bendy still had the gun, but he wasn't on his feet anymore. Was this good or bad? Bloo didn't know.

Bendy shot again and, again, Bloo ducked his head. This one had hit his ear and it bled profusely.

"Damn it, why are you so hard to kill?" Bendy hissed.

Hmm. He had escaped a straitjacket and a locked cell with Mac's assistance. Maybe if he grabbed it again now, he'd be able to fight his way out of this one. Concentrating, he tugged Mac's strength along inside of him, but his creator didn't understand what was happening. This left them with an open link between the two, but no further increase in power. Damn it.

"I don't know," Bloo countered. "Why are you such a jackass?"

Bendy squeezed the trigger...and nothing happened. Bloo released a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding and forced himself to sit up. The blood rushed to his head and he groaned, feeling woozy. Meanwhile, Bendy patted the gun, opened the chamber, and swore. There had only been two bullets inside and both had missed.

Frustrated, Bendy threw the gun at Bloo and it smacked him in the face. Bloo groaned, reached out for Mac blindly, and fainted.

* * *

Mac fought against his restraints and the whole group blinked when Bendy re-entered the room. He stepped over Berry's body and looted through her desk drawers.

"What are you doing?" Frankie said, nonplussed.

"I can't believe there's no more goddamn ammo in this thing," Bendy snapped. Mac extended his consciousness for Bloo, felt nothing, and quickly thought ahead.

"You know, we might know where there's more ammo," Mac said cunningly. "All you'd have to do is release us and we could lead you to it."

"How would you know where it is if you don't work here?" Bendy countered, hands on his hips. He tapped his foot impatiently.

"I'm Bloo's creator," Mac said. "I know everything he does." This was a bit of a stretch, but he doubted Bendy was entirely sane to begin with. Besides, it had to be better than waiting here for the mad man to dispose of Bloo, or whatever he had planned for them.

Bendy turned his back on them to consider this and Frankie mouthed at Mac 'since when do you know _anything _Bloo knows?' He shrugged, mouthing back 'it was all I could think of'. She scoffed, glancing at Mr. Herriman. Her green eyes welled with sympathy and she accepted their fate. She would do whatever it took to be released and hopefully, be rid of them.

"I'll let one of you go," Bendy decided. "Only one."

He switched the dial on his belt and transformed into an imaginary friend again. His quick, nimble claws unlocked Mac's restraints and Mac massaged his wrists. He appraised the situation, like Bloo had, and grabbed the gun out of Bendy's hands. He smashed it against his head, watched the imaginary friend fall to the ground, and crossed over him and Berry to the loudspeaker on Berry's desk. His hands slickened with sweat and shook while he activated it.

"Your leader is dead. Her favorite imaginary friend is no longer an issue," Mac said and licked his dry lips. "You are all relieved of duty...and are advised to clear out before the government gets wind of what has happened here."

He picked up a notice indicating blackmail and bribing. "The records here can incriminate each and every one of you. So I'm giving you all an hour to vacate before we call the authorities."

He smiled weakly. "That is all."

He shut off the loudspeaker and hurried outside, then doubled back. Grabbing Bendy by the scuff of his neck, he bound him up where he had been and gagged him. Frankie smiled.

"I'm impressed," she said.

"I'm not," Goo said flatly. "Anyone could have done that. It didn't even take that much upper body strength."

"Well, Master Mac, what do you intend to do now?" Mr. Herriman said.

"See if Bloo's okay, release all of you, and wait for the government officers to show up," Mac said. He crosssed back out, lifted Bloo tenderly, and cradled him on the stairs. Bloo groaned, the back of his head wet with blood.

"Mac, I don't feel so good..." he complained and collapsed again.

"It'll be okay, Bloo," Mac said, stroking his imaginary friend's face. "It'll all be okay soon."

Mac swallowed hard. "I hope."

* * *

A year later, the group stood on the grounds of what had lain dormant for decades, Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends. Thanks to Goo's quick work, the state police officials had finally be notified and all DIE members captured, with the exception of a few. Though prejudice ran still, most creators and creations came out of hiding and people gradually, hesitantly began imagining new friends. Though there could hardly be called a surplus, Madame Foster believed in time people would have need of this place. That and living underground was no longer needed for survival. Many of the friends had jumped at the chance to live above ground, though Bloo was strangely reserved. Then again, thanks to the whole Berry mess, he'd changed subtly, more cautious and rather protective over his creator.

"Well, imaginary friends, family, and humans alike, welcome home."

* * *


End file.
